The rest of the house was entirely dark, but the kitchen was bathed in the warm, amber glow of the stove light. It was just past midnight, the kind of quiet hour where the rest of the city seemed to slow down to a hum, but inside the apartment, the air smelled rich and heavy with garlic and simmering tomatoes. Paris stood by the stove, a wooden spoon loosely gripped in her hand as she gave the pasta sauce a lazy stir. She was completely at ease, wearing a short, tight pajama set that she’d pulled from the top of an unpacked duffel bag earlier that evening. Her hair was tossed up in a messy bun, a few stray pieces framing her face. She hummed a melody under her breath, watching the steam rise and fog up the small window above the sink. A floorboard creaked softly behind her. She didn't turn around; she already knew the heavy, rhythmic pattern of his footsteps. Without a word, Adam stepped into the kitchen. His hair was completely wild from tossing and turning in bed, and his eyes were still half-lidded with sleep. He didn't say a word as he closed the distance between them. Stepping up right behind her, he leaned down, burying his face for a long second into the warm crook of her neck, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo mixed with the savory kitchen air. Then, his arms slid around her waist. His hands were warm against her skin, pulling her back firmly against his chest until there was no space left between them. Paris let out a soft breath she didn't know she was holding, instantly relaxing and letting him take most of her weight. She leaned her head back against his shoulder, her eyes closing for a brief second just to feel the solid, comforting rhythm of his breathing. "Smells incredible," Adam murmured, his voice thick and raspy from sleep. His hands rested flat against her stomach, fingers tracing light patterns over the fabric of her pajamas. "It's just regular pasta," Paris replied softly, though a small, inescapable smile tugged at the corner of her lips. She lifted the wooden spoon, turning her head slightly to look at him over her shoulder. "But since you're awake, you can be the taste tester. Open up." Adam leaned forward, blowing carefully on the sauce before taking the bite. He chewed, nodding slowly with an expression of pure, exaggerated reverence. "Perfect. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—best chef in the city." "You're only saying that because you're too lazy to cook at midnight, and you know there's a plate in this for you," Paris teased, though she didn't move away. She kept one hand on the spoon, lazily stirring the pot, while his arms stayed tightly locked around her waist. "Maybe a little," Adam whispered, tightening his grip just a fraction and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her bare shoulder. "But mostly, I just like being right here. I like that I don't have to get in my car and drive twenty minutes across town just to see you." Paris stopped stirring. She placed the spoon on the rest, turning around within the circle of his arms so she was facing him. She looked up into his sleepy eyes, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. "Me too. No more saying goodbye at the front door." They ate twenty minutes later, sitting side-by-side on the kitchen counter, sharing a single plate because they still hadn't found the box with the rest of the forks. It was quiet, slightly messy, and completely perfect.

Midnight Carbs