Amy closes her eyes, shakes her head. The day outside is the kind of dull gray only possible in mid-March, and the restaurant is dark and gloomy wherever our moody overhead lights cannot reach, casting her face in deep shadows.

“You’re making a classic Spanish dish. For a Spanish chef?” Her voice has that same tone she uses to call Paul peculiar or speak to guests on the phone.

“Well...” It seemed like a good idea as I stood in the middle of the produce section of the grocery store this morning. “Yeah.”

Amy hums.

“Just say it.”

She shakes her head and presses her lips together, her eyes too big in her head. “Say what?”

“Whatever it is you want to say,” I growl.

“This is the kitchen. This is your domain. I’m staying out of it.”

I sigh. “Just tell me. I know it’s killing you.”

She leans her hip against the counter, a pensive look on her face. “I’ve never seen you eat paella, or cook it, or talk about it. Are you making paella for us?” She gestures to the restaurant. “For you? Or are you making it for Camilla?”

“Obviously I’m making everything for Camilla.” I pull a kitchen knife out of the block and start in on a Spanish onion.

“This is your chance to express yourself through your food. At least with the risotto it was something you like, right?”

“That’s easy for you to say.” I turn my back to her and crush a garlic clove against the flat of my knife. It’s not that she’s wrong. In fact, she’s almost categorically right. I don’t even have that much experience making paella. “It’s been great these last few weeks, okay? The whole team feels like it’s coming together. But as much as I have this team behind me, you behind me, this time, there’s only one person in the kitchen when it comes time to start filming.”

“This time?” A line appears between Amy’s brows. “You mean like when you were on Pop-Up Kitchen?” She closes the space between us, holding my face in her hands. “This will be nothing like last time. I promise you. Whatever you need. I’ll do it.”

My heart pounds like when I lift something heavy or run to the top of Mont Royal. I crave her touch, aching for it, and kiss the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. “Are you saying this as my business partner or as something more?”

She drops her hand.

“I’m not trying to put you on the spot,” I say quickly, stepping away to give myself space and at least the illusion of control. “But you say you want me to spread my baby queer wings and then I go and burst right through that and...” I close my eyes when she opens her mouth and she must take it for what it is: a request, a pause, the time for me to think through what I want to say next without interruptions. “I like this casual thing we have,” I say and it’s only a little bit of a lie because it’s very much not casual for me. “But when we’re at work we need to...”