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“Ooo, ice cream sounds perfect,” she sings with excitement.

I run my ice cream scooper under warm water and plop two large scoops into the bowl, before returning the rest to the freezer.

“Should we eat here or on the couch?”

Ogling the ice cream, Fia studies the two spoons and contemplates her decision.

“Hmm, couch, but hang on.”

Like she lives here, Fia rounds the island, plucking around at the containers I have set out by the stove. Your typical cooking necessities; salt, pepper, oil, all in their respective matching containers.

“Is this olive oil?” she asks, grabbing the small round jar full of flakey salt.

“It is,” I confirm.

She picks up the two and moves them to the middle of the island, stealing the bowl that’s still in my hands for herself, placing it alongside the salt and olive oil.

“Don’t judge me, but this is my favorite way to eat ice cream.”

“With flakey salt and olive oil?” My brow pinches.

“Yes, don’t judge, Gordon Ramsey.”

I bellow out a laugh. “No judgment.”

I watch as she decorates the cold treat with a small drizzle of oil and a generous heaping of flaky salt until she feels it’s perfect.

Forget the ice cream. Watching her create something she loves in my home is my own personal version of perfect.

As inspired as I felt redoing my home, as Fia sits comfortably on the tattered brown leather sectional, I’m proud to see that the real inspiration behind my interior matches her perfectly.

“Is this your favorite flavor? It’s so good?” she mumbles.

With a big spoonful, she flips it over her tongue, moaning as she slowly slides the metal out of her mouth, not missing a single drop.

Everything she does is so sexy. Fuck.

“Something like that. It’s nostalgic in a way.”

“Really, how so?”

Staring into her eyes, I let her know exactly why this flavor is my favorite.

“You smell like maple. This made me feel close to you when I couldn’t be.”

Stopping the spoon before it reaches her mouth, Fia slows her pace, taking her time with the next bite.

The homemade vanilla beans and crystalized fresh maple syrup from me, mixed with the hint of salt and olive oil from her, all hit her tastebuds the same way her sweet scent hit my nostrils the first day we met.

“You made this?” Her voice quivers even through a mouthful of ice cream.

“Yes, last night.”

I watch as she devours each bite, still yet to taste the ice cream I’ve made dozens of times with her in mind.

With widened eyes, she continues. Seeing her enjoying what I made makes me feel comfortable enough to really cook for her one day. To open all parts of me to her.

That’s the thing about me and Fia.