Elena didn't know what to expect, but the first bite told her everything she needed to know.
The dish arrived with ceremony—Marco himself placing it in front of her, fingers brushing the edge of her napkin with casual precision.
A deep bowl of butternut risotto, crowned with seared scallops and a whisper of truffle oil, steamed gently in the low candlelight.
She took her first taste.
Creamy.
Earthy.
Perfectly warm.
The kind of flavor that made you close your eyes and let it sit on your tongue.
Elena had eaten in Michelin-starred restaurants across Europe. But this… this was different.
Maybe it was the quiet hum of voices behind her.
Maybe it was the way Marco watched, arms folded, his gaze as rich and slow as the meal.
"Like it?" he asked, lips curving.
Elena licked her bottom lip, not realizing she was doing it.
"It's... indulgent."
"That's the point."
He reached for the wine bottle, pouring a ruby-red splash into her glass.
"Everything here is meant to be. Savored."
She met his eyes over the rim of her glass.
"And dessert? Should I be nervous?"
"Only if you're scared of pleasure," he said without hesitation, then turned and walked back toward the open kitchen.
She watched him go.
The dining room shifted around her.
People weren't just eating here—they were experiencing.
Fingers grazed across tables.
Soft moans followed first bites.
One couple whispered in each other's ears, laughing low between sips of wine.
Another sat so close, they looked like one silhouette.
And Elena realized: this wasn't a restaurant.
This was foreplay.
Marco reappeared just as she took the last spoonful.
"Second course is… hands-on," he said, lifting one brow.
"Care to join me?"
"In the kitchen?"
"In the experience."
She hesitated—but only for a second.
Something about the way he said it stirred her, made her want to say yes to things she hadn't even thought of yet.
"I'm in."
The kitchen was dimmer than she expected, lit by pendant lights and the occasional flicker of the woodfire oven.
Everything smelled like roasted citrus and warm herbs.
Marco handed her a knife and a peeled pear.
"Slice thin. I'll take care of the rest."
They stood shoulder to shoulder, the sounds of the restaurant distant now.
He rolled dough.
She sliced.
Occasionally their fingers brushed.
Once, her wrist grazed his as he reached for a spice tin.
It was innocent.
Barely.
But her skin prickled.
"Tell me," Marco said quietly, "why Rosehill?"
Elena paused, knife midair.
"Fresh start. I needed… distance. From a life that stopped tasting like anything."
He didn't press. Just nodded.
"Then you came to the right place."
He took her pears and arranged them like petals over the tart shell, finishing it with a brush of golden syrup.
As he slid the tray into the oven, his voice dipped lower.
"Sometimes you don't need to leave your past behind.
You just need something... worth tasting again."
Elena said nothing. But her lips parted.
Something inside her was waking up.