"All right," she agreed at last, "but no fancy stuff, okay? I'm not the caviar type."
Henry laughed. "I promise it'll be simple."
The next day, Cali showed up at Henry's apartment wearing jeans and a simple blouse. She rang the doorbell and waited, nervous. When the door opened, she almost laughed. Henry was wearing an apron—a ridiculously floral apron that clearly didn't belong to him.
"Don't laugh," he said seriously. "This apron belonged to my grandmother."
"Your grandmother had terrible taste," Cali replied, stepping inside.
The apartment was huge, but surprisingly cozy: floor-to-ceiling windows showed the lights of New York, and the open kitchen was a complete mess.
"You're cooking?" Cali asked in disbelief.
"Trying," he corrected. "But it's not going so well."
She walked over to the stove and saw a pot with something that was supposed to be tomato sauce, but looked more like lava. "Henry, what is this?"
"Carbonara sauce."
Cali picked up the spoon and tasted it. She made a face. "This isn't carbonara. This is a crime against Italy."
He crossed his arms, pretending to be offended. "Oh, so now you're a chef, too?"
"No, but I know carbonara doesn't have ketchup."
"I didn't put ketchup in it."
"Then why does it taste like burnt ketchup?"
Henry looked at the pot, confused. "I honestly don't know."
Cali started laughing, and so did Henry. The tension from the past few days melted away in that ridiculous moment.
"Step aside," she said, pulling off his apron, "before you burn down the apartment."
"I was doing fine."
"You were creating biological weapons."
Cali took over the kitchen while Henry watched, leaning against the counter, smiling. She made a simple pasta, sautéed garlic and fresh tomatoes, and in 20 minutes a decent dinner was ready.
"Here. This is real carbonara," she announced, serving the plates.
They sat at the table, and Henry brought a bottle of wine. When he tried to open it, the cork popped so hard that wine splashed right onto Cali's shirt.
"Henry!"
"Sorry! I swear that wasn't on purpose."
Cali looked at her soaked shirt and started laughing. "You're a walking disaster, you know that?"
"I'm starting to realize that," he admitted, grabbing a dish towel.
They ate between laughter and light conversation. Cali shared funny stories from jobs she had, and Henry surprised her with childhood memories that were unexpectedly simple.
After dinner, Henry had a brilliant idea: dessert.
"Henry, please don't," Cali begged.
"Trust me."
"I don't."
But he was already mixing ingredients in a bowl. Five minutes later, the smoke alarm went off. Black smoke poured out of the oven.
"What did you put in there?" Cali yelled, opening the windows.
"Brownies. I just followed the recipe."
"The recipe didn't say to set it on fire!"
They managed to shut off the alarm, but the apartment was filled with smoke. Cali looked at Henry, covered in flour with a chocolate smear on his face, and burst out laughing. "You... you're impossible."
Henry laughed, too. And suddenly, the two of them were laughing so hard they could barely breathe. When they finally calmed down, they just stood there looking at each other. The kitchen was a mess, smoke hung in the air, and dinner had been a disaster, but something had changed.
Henry stepped closer. Cali didn't move away. He lifted his hand and gently wiped a bit of flour from her cheek. The touch was soft, almost hesitant.
"Cali," he murmured.
She swallowed hard, her heart racing. "Yes?"
"I... I want..." But he didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leaned in and kissed her.
It started soft, almost shy, but then Cali responded and something between them snapped. The kiss deepened, intense, filled with all the tension built up over the past few weeks. When they finally pulled apart, both were out of breath.
"That was unexpected," Cali whispered.
"It was," Henry agreed, smiling.
They stayed there for a few more seconds, just looking at each other, until Cali remembered where she was. "I... I need to get my phone," she said nervously. "I left it in the living room."
"Of course."
Cali walked to the living room trying to process what had just happened. Her heart was still pounding and her lips tingled. But then she saw it: on the coffee table, half-hidden under a magazine, was a document. The word CONFIDENTIAL was printed at the top. And below it, her name: Cali Brooks.