Hayden slides his arms around me from behind and nibbles my neck. “I’ve created a monster.”

“Hey!” I scold. “Don’t mess with the chef. I need two eggs and Parmesan cheese for the sauce. Pronto!”

He pulls the eggs from the fridge and hands them to me. I fumble and drop both on the floor. With a sigh I admit, “The truth is that no matter what you teach me, I’m still a hazard in the kitchen.”

Hayden returns to the fridge, pulls out more eggs, holds one above his head, and then drops it on the parquet he painstakingly restored. I giggle. “What are you doing?”

“Showing you that the mess doesn’t matter,” Hayden says as both dogs happily lap up the broken eggs.

“Oh yeah?” I toss a handful of flour onto his shirt and get a dusting in return that makes us both crack up.

Once the pasta is cooked, Hayden takes over the process, quickly whisking the beaten eggs with a few tablespoons of hot pasta water then tossing the pasta with the eggs and Parmesan cheese. The result is delicious.

After I wash the pots and he dries them, I search for my Vespa key. It’s in one of the cubbyholes by the front door that Hayden made after he discovered I misplace, well, everything. It’s still hard to believe that this is my life.

It all happened organically. When I first moved in, we’d have dinner a few nights a week. Hayden loved trying out new recipes, and I started looking forward to those cozy nights of a home-cooked meal, conversations about his students, discussions of a new book they were reading, or a Scrabble game. One Sunday I invited him on a mountain bike ride. Despite sticking to the easiest trail, we had a good time. I took a Thai cooking class with Hayden and it was cool to learn something new.

Mars always asks me for details about Hayden and his life before me. But we rarely talk about that. The truth is that neither of us wants to look back. We have talked a little bit about his past relationships. The women Hayden dated wanted more than a guy with a teacher’s salary. He hasn’t asked much about my past boyfriends. Like most guys, he doesn’t want to imagine his girlfriend with someone else. And he doesn’t need to know that Mars thinks I date incredibly selfish men who reinforce the belief that I need to go to extreme measures to be valued.

One Sunday, a few weeks into living under one roof, we went to Farley’s, a neighborhood coffee spot . . .

“What do you want in life?” Hayden asked.

We weren’t dating, so I told the truth. “Children—as many as my husband and I can handle—and a partner who won’t leave, regardless of the challenges.”

Hayden said, “That’s what I want, too, and a wife who shares my passions and introduces me to new things.”

“Like what?”

“Like mountain biking,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.