I push the plunger on my French press down a little harder than necessary. But it’s not like I’m going to force-feed her. Sophie hops down from the stool and comes around the counter. For a moment, she stands behind me, a warm presence at my back, one I’ve felt a million times before in our work kitchen, but one that feels far more intimate here, in the morning light, in the green haze of my apartment turned nursery.

Sophie slips her arms around my waist, pressing herself to my back; her head rests between my shoulder blades. “But I’d love to stay and help you cook for yourself,” she says, the sound of her voice traveling through my rib cage into that warm place around my heart.

I put my hand over hers where they link around my stomach.

None of this is what I should want: waking up together, cooking outside our professional kitchen. Sophie should be meeting other people, learning about who she likes, what she likes, exploring all the amazing ways she gets to be herself. But I’m selfish, in more ways than one, since she absolutely should be off testing recipes. And I’m stupid. Because part of me hopes that somehow, after all is said and done, she won’t want anything to do with anyone else.

She’ll only want me.

“Just so you know.” I squeeze her hand. “I own one hundred percent of this kitchen.”

Her laughter shakes my back. “Yes, chef,” she says quietly, kissing me through my sweater.

I could lie and tell myself it’s hearing her hand over her power in the kitchen to me. That I’m still drunk on the lingering scent of her lemon shampoo or the way her lashes fan her cheekbones as her eyes flutter closed. That I’m just intoxicated by the goose bumps I get when she presses her laugh into my skin. But the least I can do for myself is be honest. And honestly, I’d hand over my chef’s knife right now if she asked me to. I’d never cook again.

I’m too scared to think about what that means.

Despite my assertion that I’m in charge in this kitchen, it’s hard not to be distracted by Sophie. She approaches this meal with the same seriousness that she does our work, tying her hair back and glaring furiously at pancake batter when it’s runnier than she expects.

“Hey,” I say, as she carefully slices the lemon zest into a twist. “You’re kind of good at this.”

She flushes. “Cooking?”

I wait until she puts down her knife before I set the tongs against the pan of sizzling bacon and kiss her neck. “Being my sous-chef.”

She laughs, throaty and a little bit evil. “Just this once.” And I know she means being my sous-chef, and not she’ll cook in this kitchen just this once. But the thought sucks nonetheless. I turn back to the bacon, laying the strips down on a paper towel to soak up the fat.