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I can’t help feeling so adored as he takes my hand and leads me to my seat.

“The food looks incredible. How did you know what I liked?”

“A man has to keep some secrets to himself.” He smirks, pulling out a chair at the head of the table, me on his left as he starts to fill my plate.

He watches me cut into the steak, like he wants to see my reaction.

“This is dangerous.” I pop the piece into my mouth and groan. “If you keep cooking like this, I might expect it all the time.”

He leans back in his chair, his whiskey swirling in his hand. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

There’s something in his tone that makes my stomach tighten. A quiet confidence maybe, or the affection there. Because this is what he’s been doing lately. Little things, thoughtful things, trying to win me over without forcing it.

After everything he put me through, I never thought I’d be sitting here, letting him.

And what scares me most? It’s working.

We continue to eat, conversation and laughter filling the room. Before I can think too hard about how easy it’s been to fall back into our relationship, one of the staff walks in, carrying something on a silver tray.

My breath stills the moment I see it.

A medovik: Russian honey cake. My absolute favorite, the one my mother used to make for us.

“It’s your mom’s recipe.”

Emotion clogs my throat. It’s been years since I’ve even seen this cake, since I’ve tasted the layers of honey-soaked goodness she used to make for me as a child. I lift my gaze to his, my vision blurring.

“You…” I swallow hard. “How did you…”

His expression softens with something deeper. “Konstantin shared the recipe. Figured I’d give it a shot.”

My heart thumps louder in a way that feels dangerous. Because this isn’t just some grand romantic gesture. It’s intimate. It’s proof that he cares. That he’s trying, really trying.

I shake my head, forcing a watery laugh while he cuts each of us a piece. “You really made it from scratch?”

It’s not easy. There are ten layers on this cake.

He nods, watching me carefully. “Took me a few tries,” he admits, lips quirking. “But I got it right in the end.”

I reach for the fork. The first bite is warm and rich, melting on my tongue, tasting like home. Like love. I exhale shakily, setting the fork down before meeting his gaze again.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “This means a lot to me.”

Something shifts in his expression, something unreadable, but I don’t miss the way his jaw flexes, like he’s the one struggling to keep it together.

Then his smirk returns, slow and deliberate. “Come here and bring your plate.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He leans back in his chair, patting his lap. “Sit with me.” His voice dips, smooth and commanding, and something tightens in my chest. “Let me feed you.”

A slow heat creeps up my neck, but the look in his eyes—dark, unyielding—makes it impossible to say no. Biting my lip, I pick up my plate and move toward him, settling on his lap. His arm wraps around my waist, pulling me in.

“You’ve always felt right in my arms,” he murmurs, reaching for the fork while my entire body prickles.

He cuts into the cake with deliberate slowness, lifting a bite to my lips. I part them instinctively, letting him slide the fork past them. The honey-soaked layers dissolve on my tongue, and a soft hum escapes me.

Cillian’s free hand skims along my thigh, his fingers brushing over the slit in my dress as he feeds me another bite. Then another. Each movement is unhurried, decadent, like he’s savoring every second of this—watching me, feeling me melt against him.