Pasta, Wine, and Kisses

It doesn’t take much to make me happy. Just you, a quiet evening, and the kind of love that lingers in the air like a soft melody. I imagine it so clearly—how the night would unfold, how the warmth of your presence would make everything feel softer, sweeter, slower.

The kitchen would be ours. Just us, tangled in the kind of chaos that isn’t really chaos at all. You’d be behind me, arms circling my waist as I stir the sauce, pressing kisses along the curve of my shoulder, your lips lingering just long enough to leave a trace of warmth. The scent of garlic and tomatoes would fill the air, mixing with the faint perfume of my skin, and I’d close my eyes just for a second, just to feel it all a little more deeply.

I’d be wearing something just for you. Maybe lingerie in a color you love, maybe just a tiny pair of shorts and one of your shirts hanging loosely off my shoulder. Something that would make your eyes linger, your hands find their way back to me, over and over again. I’d pretend not to notice, but I’d love every second of it.

We’d sip wine between laughter, between whispers, between kisses that would taste like red grapes and longing. You’d tuck my hair behind my ear, looking at me like I’m the only thing worth looking at, and I’d smile the way I do when I’m too full of love to hold it in.

There’s something about making food together that feels like love. The way our hands would brush when we reach for the same thing, the way you’d sneak bites of meat when you think I’m not looking, the way you’d tilt my chin up for a kiss while the pasta water boils over. Every little moment would be ours, wrapped in the golden glow of the kitchen lights, sealed with the kind of kisses that speak more than words ever could.

By the time we’d sit down to eat, my cheeks would already be warm—not just from the wine, but from you. From the way you look at me, the way your fingers find mine across the table, the way you make me feel like home is not a place, but a person. You.

And maybe the food wouldn’t be perfect. Maybe the pasta would be overcooked, maybe we’d forget an ingredient, maybe the wine would spill because I was too busy kissing you to care about the glass in my hand. But none of it would matter. Because in that moment, with your laughter filling the room and your love filling my heart, everything would already be perfect.

We’d stay like that for hours, talking, sipping, stealing kisses between sentences. You’d say something that would make me laugh too hard, and I’d cover my face with my hands, but you’d pull them away, wanting to see all of me.

And when the night would settle into that soft, quiet glow, when the only thing left would be us and the warmth of everything we created together, I’d sit back, watch you, and know—this is what love feels like. Not just in the grand, dramatic moments, but in nights like this. Simple. Sweet. Full of pasta, wine, and kisses.

And you.

Always you.