Leila
The kitchen smelled like garlic and burnt sugar, a rich, heady mix that clung to my clothes like a second skin. Darren was right—he was so right. He didn't just cook; he breathed life into the food. The lasagna had layers that melted on my tongue, ricotta sweet with a hint of lemon, meat sauce slow-simmered until it tasted like memory. Nothing like the stiff, over-salted dishes at the palace, where chefs cooked to impress, not to care. These plates held something raw, something warm—love, I realized, sharp and sudden as a bruise.
Jazz hummed from the speakers, a saxophone winding through the room like a lover's sigh. I'd had three glasses of wine, maybe four. The bay outside the window glittered, a spill of diamonds across the water, each light winking back at the stars like they
