“Definitely,” I breathe out, feeling a rush of hunger as I look down at the plate. Oliver is such a good cook, always casually setting restaurant style meals in front of me, and I am so, so lucky.

I lift our joined hands and press a kiss to his knuckles before letting go to pick up my fork. Once I start eating, I realize just how hungry I am and set upon my meal with gusto, humming my compliments as I scarf it down. Eventually I pause to take a breath, cheeks flushing as I look over at him with a bashful smile.

“You and Mafalda would have made magic together,” I tell him, which is perhaps the highest compliment that I could give his food.