"A gentleman," Quinn noted, taking the offered seat graciously. He delicately retrieved his wineglass, watching Mikkel's departure into the kitchen over the smooth rim. The house, the dinner, the<i>man</i>, it certainly all seemed too good to be true. The few minutes left alone afforded Quinn a quiet moment of retrospection, a subtle soundtrack of clinking plates and serving utensils off in the distance. Perhaps it was all not as it seemed, Quinn considered. On one hand, there was no logical reason for a handsome, successful, intelligent man such as Mikkel to live alone on such an impressive bit of real estate, catering to no one and nothing other than his own tastes and hobbies. The thought crossed his mind that perhaps this wasn't Mikkel's only home. Just maybe, hidden away in some high rise in the city, Mikkel had a pretty little wife and perfect, straight-A children tucked away for safe keeping. Or maybe a two-story home in a gated community, in a suburban neighborhood with a dog and a fence. This sweet out-of-the-way retreat could be a little secret. Maybe Quinn was nothing more than a pile of bones, another hobby to keep Mikkel satisfied.<br/><br/>And if he was to be a pretty distraction, a body to be used and appreciated while a lonely housewife sat alone, did Quinn truly care? The young artist smirked to himself, already knowing the answer. Quinn never made an effort to be a pillar of morality, preferring to judge his own actions on a spectrum which measured little more than what would feel best. Mikkel set his nerves on fire. He was a joy for the eyes and addictive to the mind, leaving Quinn aching for more. Whatever skeletons Mikkel kept in his closet wasn't truly any of his business, and Quinn could be frightfully forgiving to those who showered him with attention.<br/><br/>He smiled as Mikkel returned, taking in the sight and smell of the food set before him. "Stunning," Quinn said, nodding his approval. Mikkel was meticulous even in this, plating the food like a professional chef might in some five-star restaurant where each meal cost upwards of a few hundred dollars per plate. The same kinds of restaurants Quinn never quite had the personal means to frequent.<br/><br/>Mikkel's fingers were lightning bolts against his shoulders, though Quinn tried his best to give little away. The older man's scent seemed to linger there after he had placed himself on the opposite side of the table, rich and alluring. Quinn wanted more.<br/><br/>"Only a second attempt? Aren't you bold, Mikkel," he teased, spreading his napkin out over his lap. "A less adventurous man would attempt to make his best meal, something he had cooked a hundred times before, something he could prepare in his sleep and know for a certainty it would be flawless. A sure method of impressing a date." Fork in his left hand, knife in his right. "But not you, Mikkel. Would it be presumptuous of me to assume you're a man who enjoys taking a risk? Approaching me in the museum, inviting me to your home, and preparing a meal you have only a fleeting experience with. It's... dreadfully charming."<br/><br/>He tasted the meat first, purring appreciatively as rich flavor exploded onto his tongue. Less juicy than beef, but smooth and firm with pockets of herbs and a perfectly balanced acidic glaze. "Your casual tone belies your obvious skill. This is like nothing I've ever tasted before," he exclaimed, not used to bestowing compliments so readily. "Truly, my urge to criticize has been trumped. I can only hope the rest of the evening lives up to the high standard you've set for yourself."