Their first official date happened by accident. The restaurant he picked lost power in the storm, so they ran through the rain to her place, laughing with their coats over their heads, shoes squelching as they kicked them off at the door.
"Chef's special," he announced, holding up a grocery bag with a flourish. "Pasta, garlic, tomatoes, hope."
She found an old apron and handed it to him. He tied it on, crooked and proud, like a knight in a paper crown. Music trickled from her small speaker - the same gentle melody that had followed them since the café, now a little louder, like it recognized the room.
They chopped and stirred and bumped hips in the narrow kitchen. He sliced the tomatoes too thick; she salted the water like a sailor. When the sauce sputtered, he shielded the pan with a pot lid, grinning through the steam. She dabbed a dot of sauce on his nose. He dipped his head so she could wipe it away with her thumb, but she lingered, and his breath caught.
"Careful," he murmured, eyes warm. "We're close to a serious meal."
"We're close to something," she whispered back.
The pasta overcooked, the bread burned a little, the basil - miraculously - survived a second day. They ate at the counter, knees brushing, sharing a fork because the clean ones were still in the dishwasher. It was imperfect and shining and entirely theirs.
Later, with the dishes soaking and rain still rapping the window, he took her hand and led her to the tiny living room. No audience, no café lights - just a lamp and a rug and the soft susurrus of water. They swayed. The melody rose. He kissed her like a vow spoken in a language only they knew.
When the song ended, he didn't let go. "I don't know how to do this perfectly," he admitted.
"Good," she said. "I don't want perfect. I want us."