The oven tir went off. Sophie reached forward and silenced it with one hand, and Stan stepped back just enough to let her pull the door open.
The sll that rolled out was even better, deeper, finished, properly done, and she set both trays on the stovetop and stood back to look at them with the expression of a person whose gamble has just paid off exactly as calculated.
Golden crust. Crisp edges on the fries. Everything exactly the color it was supposed to be.
"Told you," she said with a cute smile
Stan looked over the trays, then back at her, taking his ti.
"You did," he said. "Slls right. Looks even better." A faint pause, then, softer, "Chef’s kiss."
Color rose to her cheeks at that, unavoidable, given that the words ’chef’s kiss’ reminded her of her kiss with him, and then she turned away before it could show too clearly.
She reached for the serving dish she’d already set out, of course she had, and began transferring the pieces with quiet, composed satisfaction.
Beyond the glass, the city glittered, and out on the balcony, the white candles waited, untouched, for soone to light them.
Stan picked up the lighter from the counter before she could ask. She didn’t ask.
She just glanced at him sideways as he moved toward the balcony door, her mouth curved in that particular smile she seed to reserve specifically for monts when he did sothing she hadn’t needed to request.
He pushed the door open, and the cool evening air ca in, carrying the distant hum of the city below.
"You’re going to like this," Sophie called after him, her voice warm and certain from inside the kitchen.
He crouched beside the first candle and lit it.
"I know," he said.
Stan carried both candles out, lighting them at the small café table while Sophie made two trips between the kitchen and the balcony, the serving dish first, then the three dipping sauce rakins arranged on a small tray she’d clearly bought specifically for this purpose, because it matched the placemats, which ant she’d planned the tray before she’d even confird he was coming.
The balcony was small but well-proportioned, enough room for a table and a comfortable sofa...
The view outside was nice, the city fell away below them in every direction, and the sky above had gone the particular deep blue that only exists in the twenty minutes after full dark, before it deepens to black.
The candles caught the air and held steady, sheltered from the light breeze by the balcony walls.
Sophie set the tray down, stepped back, and surveyed the table.
"Okay," she said quietly. "This is what I had in mind."
Stan looked at the table. Then at the view. Then at her.
"You did well."
"I know." She exhaled with the particular relief of soone who’d been holding a plan in her head for thirty-six hours and had just watched it successfully materialize.
She gestured at a sofa. "Sit."
"I can help with the serving..."
"Sit. Let serve you properly. No need to do it yourself."
Stan sat with a sigh..
Sophie went back inside and returned with two glasses, sparkling water, a slim slice of lemon resting at the rim of each, and set them at the placemats with the focused care of soone who had been imagining this exact mont and intended to execute it correctly.
Then she stood back, hands clasped in front of her, looking at the table.
"Napkins," she said. To herself, mostly. She went back inside.
Stan looked at the serving dish in front of him. The chicken was arranged properly, not just piled, actually arranged, the pieces fanned slightly, the fries gathered neatly alongside.
The three rakins were labeled with small pieces of torn paper folded over their edges. Honey Mustard. Garlic Aioli. The third one read simply, The Spicy One (Mine).
The handwriting on the third one was a little crooked. She’d probably done that one last, in a hurry.
Sophie reappeared with two cloth napkins, cloth, not paper, she’d bought cloth napkins for this, and set one at each place.
Then she sat down across from him, straightened her napkin in her lap, and looked at the table with an expression of soone conducting a final systems check.
"Okay. We’re ready."
"We’ve been ready. The food’s been ready. There’s really no need for all this."
"The napkins weren’t out."
"Sophie."
"Presentation matters." She lifted her glass of drink and held it toward him. "To a quiet evening."
Stan lifted his. "To a quiet evening."
They touched glasses. Sophie took a small sip and set hers down, and then looked at the dish with the bright anticipatory expression of soone who had cooked a al specifically to watch another person eat it.
Stan reached for the serving tongs.
"Wait."
He paused.
She leaned forward and adjusted the position of the garlic aioli rakin by approximately one centiter, then sat back. "Okay. Now."
"The placent was bothering you."
"Yes."
"Clearly." He reached for the tongs again.
"Actually," She stood up from the side of the sofa
"Sophie."
"I just want to try sothing, it’ll make you feel good don’t worry," she said softly.
Sophie shifted forward and settled onto his lap, her warm, soft ass pressing deliciously against him.
Stan’s could feel his dick getting hard that instant, he was fighting the urge to skip this theatrics and move directly to the real deal. The urge to directly undress her right this mont and ’punish’ her for this rciless teasing was great...
While doing that was good, they can always move to that when they’re done with the good food she prepared...
With mixed feelings he could only watch as she took the tongs gently from his hand, plucked one piece of chicken from the plate, and held it suspended for a mont.
She hovered it briefly over her own spicy rakin, the one clearly labeled with her na, then dipped just the very edge into the sauce. With a playful glint in her eyes, she extended the piece toward his mouth.
"Try it like this first," she murmured. "Before everything else. I want to see your actual reaction. Not the polite one."
Stan looked at the piece of chicken held before him by the woman in the cream blouse, on a balcony overlooking a city that had cost him far more than he’d ever admitted to anyone.
He had spent his entire adult life feedin himself in transit. Standing at counters. One hand on a phone. The last person to hand him food on a plate had been a mother whose face he could no longer reliably picture.
And that was back when he was a kid... While the fact a grown ass man like him being feed made him feel sohow, it still felt romantic nonetheless, he couldn’t protest...
Sighing, He leaned forward and took the bite.
The crust gave with a clean snap. The at beneath was exactly as she’d promised, rich, perfectly cooked, the marinade in every layer.
The edge of spicy sauce cut through with a bright, building heat.
He chewed slowly.
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