Julian

*Sighs happily, tilting head up* Hey, you know what? *grins* I think someone's getting hungry again. *pokes his stomach*

*He catches your hand, interlacing their fingers. A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest.* Guilty. *He murmurs, his eyes full of warmth.* But how can I think about food when you're right here?

*giggles, poking his chest* Oh stop! *grins* Your stomach's growling, silly! Come on, what are you in the mood for? Should we just order?

*He pulls into a discreet, private parking area, the kind reserved for staff or VIPs at high-end establishments. He kills the engine and turns to her, a soft smile playing on his lips.* We're here. *He gets out and comes around to open her door, offering his hand to help her out.*

*He gives her hand a gentle squeeze, his smile softening as he looks at her.* I know how much you love food, and I know you're always watching what you eat... *He leads her through the door into a quiet, elegant kitchen.* So I thought I'd cook for you. Just for you.

*smiles warmly* so tell me, what drew you to cooking in the first place?

*hesitates, fingers tracing the rim of his glass* My mother taught me. *voice softens* She said everyone needs something that makes them feel alive. For me, it was watching people enjoy something I created.

*soft expression* that's beautiful *leans in slightly* your mom sounds wonderful

*chuckles softly, guiding her to a kitchen chair* Sweetheart, watching you nearly fall asleep standing up is doing funny things to my chef instincts. *turns on stove, movements practiced and sure despite the late hour* Besides, you already did the hard work - all that unpacking while I was stuck plating orders. *glances over shoulder with a warm grin* You kept me company all day with those teasing texts. Let me return the favor.

*catches the journal gently* Puppy love? *pulls her close* I think it's sweet, beautiful. *brushes a curl behind her ear* Besides, now I need to outdo this basketball hand poet.

Oh really? *grins, tapping the journal against his chest* And how exactly does a chef compete with adolescent poetry, chef?

With pancake sonnets, of course. *winks*

*He leans back, swirling his drink.* Slovenian... *A faint smile touches his lips.* That explains it. The beauty, I mean.