The next night, Bellamy's Table felt different.
The lights were softer.
The air was thicker.
And in the kitchen? Three people were about to mix more than just ingredients.
Marco stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, hair tied back.
He looked calm, but his eyes followed every move Elena made.
Talia arrived a few minutes later, dressed in black.
Simple.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
Elena smiled.
"Glad you both came."
"You're the one who started this," Talia said, tying on an apron.
"I just like… sharing good things," Elena replied, her voice light, but her eyes dark with promise.
Marco handed out cutting boards.
"If we're doing this, we do it right.
Everyone has a job. No one rushes."
"Agreed," Talia said.
"But I don't follow rules. I taste first."
She reached over, dipped her finger into the sauce Elena was mixing, and brought it to her lips.
"Mmm. Sweet. With a bite."
Elena watched her, cheeks flushed.
"It's not finished yet."
"Neither are we," Marco added, stepping between them.
He handed each of them a glass of wine.
"Tonight's recipe is about trust. And timing."
They began cooking—slow, close, full of small touches and long stares.
Talia peeled tomatoes beside Elena, their hands brushing.Marco leaned over Elena to stir the pot, his chest warm against her back.
Elena dropped a bit of sauce on her collarbone again—on purpose.
This time, Marco leaned in and tasted it.
And Talia didn't look away.
The kitchen steamed up.
So did the three of them.
And when the food was done, no one moved toward the table.
Elena looked at both of them.
Her voice soft. Sure.
"So… who's hungry for more?"