The kitchen smells like garlic and warm oil. Vegetables hit the cutting board in steady rhythm - your rhythm, the one you don't have to think about. Callum is leaning against the counter behind you. Not talking. Which is unusual enough to notice. You don't look up. You keep chopping. But you can feel him watching with that particular brand of quiet that means he's working something out. Last week a stray compliment made you flinch. You recovered in under a second. He saw it anyway. Now he has a theory. And the kitchen is warm, and your knife doesn't stop, and he opens his mouth.