"Nervous?" Nathan asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he opened the door wider.
Stephanie raised a brow. "About what? That you might poison me with your cooking?"
He let out a soft laugh and stepped aside to let her in. "Poison? I'll have you know I survived two Gordon Ramsay episodes in my head just to impress you."
"Oh, that explains the apron," she teased, glancing down at the black linen cloth tied over his button-down shirt. "Very domestic of you, Mr. Voss."
He shot her a look. "Don't ruin this for me."
The soft lighting in the apartment, the clink of cutlery in the distance, the faint jazz humming in the background—it all felt… strange. In a good way. Stephanie took in the warm scent of grilled garlic and herbs wafting from the kitchen, the cozy flicker of candles dotting the dining table.
"You didn't have to go all out," she said, gently, genuinely.
"I did," he replied, meeting her gaze. "I wanted to."
Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary before he turned toward the kitchen island. "Dinner's ready."
She followed him to the table, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. "So what am I being served by this surprisingly domesticated billionaire tonight?"
He lifted the lids with mock grandeur. "Seared salmon with lemon butter, sautéed asparagus, and mashed potatoes with garlic confit. I even made the lemon butter myself."
Stephanie blinked. "Okay, who are you and what have you done with the ice king I met in that gallery?"
He grinned. "Maybe I'm trying to melt."
They took their seats, and as the first bites passed, so did the laughter. Easy, flowing, unforced. They teased each other, argued over whether mint belonged in lemonade, debated favorite movie quotes, and challenged each other on song lyrics. It felt like the kind of dinner that left space for air—real air. No games. No masks.
"Alright," Stephanie said, wiping her mouth. "Confession time."
Nathan leaned back, wine glass in hand. "Oh? Are we playing truth or truth?"
"Not a game," she smiled, leaning forward. "Just curious."
He tilted his head, cautious. "About?"
She hesitated for only a second. "Where do we stand?"
The room shifted subtly—still warm, but heavier. Nathan's smile faltered, his fingers still around the glass.
"I mean…" she continued, watching his face. "This—us. You invite me to dinner, you cook, we flirt, we kiss… well, we haven't tonight, but—"
Before she could finish, he leaned across the table, cupped her cheek, and kissed her.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't a performance.
It was the kind of kiss that silenced thought—soft, yet aching. Confident, yet unsure.
When he pulled away, his eyes searched hers. "I wanted to do that since the gallery."
Stephanie exhaled, her voice hushed. "Then why do you look like you're carrying a brick on your chest?"
Nathan stood and moved to her side of the table. He crouched slightly so they were eye to eye. "Because I am."
She blinked at him.
He took her hand gently. "You said something earlier—about nobody cooking for you."
A sad laugh escaped her. "Yeah, I guess that slipped."
"Tell me," he said, his voice lower now.
She swallowed, lips trembling slightly. "My mom walked out eighteen years ago. Took my older sister with her. Left me and Leo with Dad. That night, they argued—loud, ugly. And then my dad…"
Her voice cracked. She looked away.
Nathan touched her arm gently.
"He saved someone that night," she said, eyes misted. "Pulled a boy from a burning wreck. Two weeks later, he died in another accident. And suddenly, it was just me and Leo. Our grandma stepped in, raised us till she passed. Since then, it's been me and my brother—alone."
Her voice shook. "I stopped hoping someone would do things for me. Even small things. Like cooking dinner."
Nathan's jaw clenched. He reached up and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with his thumb. "I'm so sorry."
Stephanie pulled back slightly, blinking fast. "You don't have to say that."
"I do," he whispered. "Because I've been hiding something."
She straightened, brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"
He stood slowly, running a hand through his hair, tension knotting his jaw. "The moment you mentioned the picture—the one your father told you to draw from his dream—I knew who you were."
She stared, confused.
He turned to face her fully, guilt stamped into every feature. "I was the boy he saved. The boy from the accident. The one your father pulled out of the fire."
Silence crashed between them.
"I recognized the image immediately," he continued. "I recognized you. The girl from the vision. From the sketch."
Stephanie's lips parted, her voice caught in her throat. "And you didn't say anything?"
"I didn't know how," he confessed, stepping toward her. "I wanted to be sure. I wanted to protect the memory. I didn't want to manipulate you."
"You let me stand there and talk about dreams, pictures, my father—like I was telling a story to a stranger."
"I'm sorry."
"You lied to me, Nathan!"
"No. I—" he reached for her, but she stepped back. "I didn't lie. I withheld the truth. But not to hurt you. I just… I didn't know what to do. I was angry, broken. Meeting you felt like fate. I couldn't ruin it."
Tears streaked down her face, but her expression was unreadable—caught between heartbreak and fury.
"I have to go," she muttered.
Nathan's voice was rough. "Stephanie—"
"Don't."
He sighed, grabbed his keys, and followed her out. "I'm driving you."
The ride was silent—tense. When they reached her street, he parked without a word.
Before she stepped out, he murmured, "I never wanted to hurt you. I've never met anyone like you."
She didn't respond. She slammed the door shut behind her.
But her heart thundered in her chest.
Inside her apartment, Stephanie tossed her heels aside and headed into the living room—only to freeze.
Leo stood there, arms crossed, brows stormy. Beside him was a woman.
A woman Stephanie hadn't seen in eighteen years.
Her mother.
Stephanie's breath caught. "What the hell is this?"
Her mother's voice was soft, too soft. "Stephanie—"
"Don't," she warned, her voice trembling.
Leo looked away, fists clenched. "She just showed up."
Stephanie's pulse pounded in her ears as the room spun. "What do you want?"