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Jack's chest presses against my back as he positions my hands on the knife. "Like this. Follow the joint line." His fingers guide mine with surprising precision.

"You seem to know what you're doing."

"Basic survival skills." He pauses. "From field research."

The chicken comes apart under our combined effort. His touch lingers longer than necessary, and I find myself leaning into him.

"Now for the vegetables," the instructor calls out.

I attack an onion with more enthusiasm than skill. Tears stream down my face. "God, I'm a mess."

"Here." Jack hands me his handkerchief - who even carries those anymore? "You're doing fine. Better than most hu- better than most first-timers."

The warmth in his voice makes me forget about my stinging eyes. I turn to face him, finding him much closer than expected. A smudge of flour dusts his cheek, making him look oddly vulnerable.

"You know," I say, reaching up to brush it away, "for someone who studies people, you're pretty hard to figure out yourself."

His hand catches mine before I can pull it back. The kitchen fades away, leaving just us and the electric current running between our skin.

"Now we deglaze."

The wine splashes into the pan, steam rising with a rich aroma. Jack's hand covers mine on the wooden spoon, adjusting my stirring technique.

"Slower," he murmurs near my ear. "Let it reduce naturally."

My skin tingles where his fingers rest. "You seem to know an awful lot about French cooking for someone who studies people for a living."

"I find food preparation across different cultures a topic of great importance." His thumb traces a small circle on my wrist. "The intimacy of sharing meals, the trust involved in preparing food for others..."

I swallow hard, trying to focus on the bubbling sauce. "Is this part of your research too?"

"No." His other hand settles on my hip, steadying me as he reaches past for the herbs. "This is just for us."

The thyme crumbles between his fingers into the pan. Each time he moves, his chest brushes my back. The kitchen feels ten degrees warmer.

"The carrots need turning," I manage to say.

"Show me how you'd do it."

I reach for the pan handle, but he doesn't step back. Instead, his arms cage me in as I flip the vegetables. His fingers brush mine as he adjusts the heat.

"Perfect," he says, and I'm not sure if he means the carrots or something else.

The instructor's voice seems distant as she explains the next steps. The only thing on my mind is Jack's presence, the way his hands keep finding excuses to touch mine - passing ingredients, demonstrating techniques, steadying the cutting board. Each contact sends electricity through my veins.

"Your heart's racing," he observes quietly, his fingers resting on my pulse point as we wait for the sauce to thicken.

"Must be the heat from the stove," I lie, not meeting his eyes.

His low chuckle tells me he doesn't believe me for a second.

The rich aroma of coq au vin fills the small dining area as we plate our creation. Jack's fingers brush mine as he passes me the garnish.

"Not bad for someone who claims to burn water," he says, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"I had help." I arrange the thyme sprigs, probably with more attention than necessary. "Though I'm still suspicious of your 'field research' cooking skills."

"Perhaps I moonlight as a secret chef." He ladles the sauce with precise movements. "Studying human culture by day, mastering French cuisine by night. Though I must admit, my research methods have become... less conventional lately."