The knock on the door started Stella who had just topped her sandwich with a piece of Brie. Baguette, prosciutto, a poached egg on a bed of wilted spinach and topped with Brie. Oh yes, where was Tesla, she wondered, he normally would just about trip her with his lovin’ when he smelled cooking.<br/><br/>She walked to the peephole spatula still in hand and peered out, and there, grinning broadly and looking rather pleased with himself stood Anton with a comatose looking Tesla in his big arms. Big arms...she mused before she mentally swatted herself...stop it Missy, dude is hitched. She opened the door, apron on, yoga pants and too thin t-shirt, stupid, stupid, why wasn’t she wearing a bra....and spatula still in hand.<br/><br/>“Tesla! Anton!” She was beaming. Tesla awoke with a big cat yawn, and stretched in Anton’s arms before jumping down and inspecting the kitchen. “Omg, where did you find him? And oh, did you eat yet? Maybe as a thanks I can make my world famous sandwich for you and the missus?” She realized she was blabbering and pointed at his ring finger. Stop blushing you goose, she admonished herself. Stop. Stop. Calm the fuck down. Think of.... uh.... Bach, Albinoni. Vivaldi. Anything. Just stop matching your hair color.