Rain tapped gently against the kitchen window of their Portland craftsman, wrapping the house in a cozy chill. Inside, the warm glow of the pendant lights illuminated the granite island where David was carefully slicing a baguette. It was their tenth wedding anniversary, a milestone that usually demanded a grand, expensive gesture, but they had mutually agreed that a quiet night at home felt infinitely more luxurious.

"Did you find the good wine glasses?" David asked, transferring the bread to a wooden charcuterie board already loaded with aged gouda, prosciutto, and fig jam.

"Top shelf, hiding behind the martini shakers we never use," Elena called from the dining room. She walked back into the kitchen, wiping a thin layer of dust from the delicate crystal stems. She set them on the counter and reached for the bottle of Cabernet they had bought on a trip to Napa five years ago, specifically saving it for tonight. With practiced ease, she twisted the corkscrew into the foil.

"I can't believe it's been a decade," she said, pulling the cork free with a satisfying pop. "Ten years ago, we were stressing over seating charts and whether the DJ would play 'The Chicken Dance' against our strict orders."

David laughed, wiping his hands on a dish towel before wrapping his arms around her waist. "And now, our biggest stress is whether the brie has been sitting out long enough. I'd say that's a massive upgrade."

Elena smiled and leaned into him, pouring the dark red wine into their glasses. The house was blissfully quiet, free from the demands of work emails and the bustling city outside. They clinked their glasses together, the crystal chiming softly over the sound of the rain.

"Happy anniversary, David."

"Happy anniversary, El. Here's to the next ten."


Rain lashed against the living room windows of their Portland townhouse, blurring the streetlights into glowing golden orbs. Marcus sat on the edge of the sofa, scrolling through his phone with a small frown.

"Le Pigeon has a cancellation for tomorrow at eight," he announced, looking up at his wife. "It’s our tenth anniversary, Sarah. We should do it up right."

Sarah leaned against the kitchen peninsula, nursing a mug of chamomile tea. She looked at the rain, then at Marcus’s tired eyes—eyes she had loved for over a decade. "Do you actually want to put on a suit, pay for an Uber in this downpour, and shout over a crowded dining room?" she asked, a gentle tease in her voice.

Marcus sighed, his shoulders dropping in relief as he tossed his phone onto the cushions. "Not even a little bit. But I want to celebrate you. You deserve a great night."

"Then let's celebrate us, here," Sarah said, setting her mug down, walking over, and sitting beside him. "We can pick up those dry-aged ribeyes from the butcher down the street. I’ll make my roasted asparagus, and you can work your magic with the mashed potatoes."

A smile broke across Marcus’s face. "Garlic and herb. Heavy on the butter."

"Exactly." Sarah leaned into his shoulder. "And we still have that bottle of Cabernet we bought in Napa on our honeymoon."

Marcus wrapped an arm around her, kissing the top of her head. "Steak, the good wine, and we finally put on a movie we actually want to watch. No phones. Just us."

"It sounds perfect," she murmured.

They sat together listening to the rhythm of the rain, fully agreeing that a decade of marriage didn't need to be proven with an expensive night out. The quiet comfort of their shared life was exactly what they wanted to celebrate.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago rowhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was perfectly warm. Mark expertly twisted the corkscrew into a bottle of Cabernet, the satisfying *pop* cutting through the sound of the autumn storm.

"I'm so glad we canceled the reservation," Sarah said. She leaned against the kitchen island, carefully arranging a sprig of rosemary over the resting steaks. "A decade of marriage, and my ultimate fantasy is just staying in sweatpants."

Mark chuckled, pouring the dark red wine into two oversized glasses. "Hey, these are our formal sweatpants. And besides, trying to find parking downtown in this weather would have ended in a divorce. Ten years deserves better than arguing over a street meter." He handed her a glass, clinking it gently against his own. "Happy anniversary, babe."

"Happy anniversary," Sarah smiled, taking a sip. "Alright, put your playlist on. The good one, not the one with all the obscure jazz."

Mark feigned offense, pressing play on his phone. The soft, familiar opening chords of a Leon Bridges track filled the room. While Mark turned back to the stove to deglaze the skillet with balsamic, Sarah carried the dinner plates into the dining room. She had elevated the evening by lighting the tall taper candles and pulling out the linen napkins they usually saved for Thanksgiving.

"Sauce is ready," Mark announced, bringing the sizzling pan over to the table. He divided the rich, buttery reduction over the meat while Sarah tossed a simple arugula salad with lemon and olive oil.

They sat down across from each other, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows over their faces. There were no grand speeches or expensive orchestra seats, just the comfortable rhythm of their shared life. As Sarah reached across the table to squeeze Mark’s hand, she realized the quiet sanctuary they had built together was exactly where she wanted to be.


Marcus leaned over the kitchen island, expertly dicing a shallot while a low jazz playlist hummed from the smart speaker. Outside their Portland townhome, a steady November drizzle washed the evening streets, making their brightly lit kitchen feel even more secluded.

"Are you absolutely sure you don't mind skipping the reservation at *Le Pigeon*?" David asked. He was standing by the wine rack in the corner, carefully dusting off a bottle of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir they had purchased on their honeymoon and saved specifically for tonight.

Marcus scraped the shallots into a sizzling pan of butter, the savory aroma instantly filling the room. "Honestly? A decade of marriage feels too important to share with a crowded, noisy dining room. I'd rather be right here in sweatpants, cooking with you."

David smiled, pulling the cork with a soft, satisfying pop. He retrieved two crystal glasses from the overhead cabinet, his movements easy and practiced. "Then a quiet tenth anniversary it is. Though I expect you to let me do all the dishes."

"It’s a deal," Marcus laughed, turning his attention to searing the scallops.

David moved to the dining table in the adjacent alcove. He laid out the heavy linen napkins they usually reserved for holidays and struck a match, bringing a pair of tall taper candles to life. The soft, flickering light transformed their everyday living space into something intimate and sacred.

Stepping back into the kitchen, David handed Marcus a glass of the ruby liquid. They paused, letting the rhythmic sizzle of the stove anchor the moment. David gently tapped his rim against his husband's glass.

"Ten years," David said softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Here's to the quiet nights."

Marcus smiled, taking a sip. "And to a lifetime more of them."


Rain drummed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, a steady rhythm that perfectly suited the quiet evening they had planned. It was their tenth anniversary, a milestone that friends and family usually dictated should be celebrated with a lavish trip or a crowded dinner party. Instead, Sarah and David had mutually agreed on something much more intimate.

"I picked up the ribeyes on my way home," David said, shrugging off his damp coat and setting a brown paper butcher’s bag on the granite island. "And that Pinot Noir we discovered in Willamette Valley last year."

"Perfect," Sarah smiled, looking up from the cutting board where she was expertly dicing fresh rosemary and garlic. "I've got the fingerling potatoes ready for roasting. Can you preheat the oven to four hundred?"

David nodded, reaching past her to punch the buttons on the stove. He lingered for a moment, pressing a warm kiss to her temple. "Ten years. Can you believe we survived three cross-country moves, a disastrous plumbing incident, and adopting a beagle with severe separation anxiety?"

Sarah laughed, using the side of her knife to scrape the herbs into a small bowl of olive oil. "I think the plumbing incident was the real stress test. After we managed to clean up that flooded basement without turning on each other, I knew we were set for life."

While Sarah carefully rubbed the marinade into the steaks, David moved to the living room to queue up a jazz playlist on the vintage record player. The warm, familiar crackle of the vinyl filled the space between them. There were no grand gestures tonight, no expensive jewelry or chaotic restaurant reservations. As David returned to uncork the wine and pour them each a generous glass, they clinked their rims together over the cutting board, perfectly content in the quiet, beautiful life they had built together.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland townhome, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and distinctly domestic. Mark leaned over the butcher block island, carefully scoring a duck breast, while Sarah stood by the open wine fridge, debating between two bottles of Pinot Noir.

"I still can't believe we've made it a decade," Sarah said, holding up a dusty bottle with a 2014 vintage. "Ten years. Are you absolutely sure you don't mind skipping the fancy downtown reservations?"

Mark looked up, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. "Positive. The last thing I want on our tenth anniversary is to shout over a crowded dining room just to tell you I love you. Besides, I’ve been dry-aging this duck since yesterday morning."

Sarah smiled, selecting the 2014 bottle. "You convinced me. I’ll open this to let it breathe." She expertly worked the corkscrew, the familiar *pop* signaling the official start of their evening. Pouring two generous glasses, she handed one to Mark before wandering into the adjacent living room.

While Mark turned his attention to the stovetop, adjusting the flame until the cast-iron pan sizzled perfectly, Sarah knelt by the fireplace. She arranged the kindling, struck a long match, and watched the flames catch the dry birch. Satisfied with the growing warmth, she queued up a playlist of soft jazz and dimmed the overhead lights.

"Dinner is resting," Mark called out a few minutes later, stepping into the living room. He settled onto the leather sofa beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as he took his wine glass back.

Sarah leaned into his shoulder, gently clinking her glass against his. "Happy anniversary, Mark."

"Happy anniversary, Sarah," he replied softly. The fire crackled, filling the quiet space between them—exactly the celebration they had both wanted.


Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the kitchen window of their Seattle townhouse, but inside, the air was warm and smelled of roasting garlic and rosemary. It was their tenth wedding anniversary, and instead of the extravagant European vacation their friends had suggested, Mark and Elena had mutually agreed on a quiet Tuesday night at home.

At the stove, Mark expertly flipped a pair of ribeye steaks in the cast-iron skillet, the butter sizzling as he basted them with a sprig of thyme. "I still think my mother is disappointed we didn't throw a vow renewal party," he said, nudging the heat down so the meat wouldn't overcook.

Elena laughed, twisting the corkscrew into a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. "Your mother thinks any occasion without a catered buffet is a missed opportunity." She popped the cork, poured two generous glasses, and handed one to him, pausing to kiss his shoulder. "I, for one, am thrilled I get to wear cashmere sweatpants."

"Hey, these are my formal sweatpants," Mark teased, clinking his glass against hers.

Leaving him to monitor the steaks, Elena carried the wine to the dining alcove. She bypassed their everyday ceramic plates and pulled down the good china—a wedding gift they rarely used. She laid out linen napkins and lit two tall beeswax candles, instantly transforming the modest space into a private sanctuary. Meanwhile, Mark pulled a pan of roasted potatoes from the oven, the comforting heat radiating into the small kitchen.

He brought the serving dishes to the table, taking the seat across from her. The flickering light caught the emerging silver in his hair, a gentle reminder of the decade they had navigated together. Elena reached across the table, her fingers finding his.

"Happy ten years," she said softly.

Mark smiled, squeezing her hand. "Here’s to the next ten. And to staying exactly where we belong."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland craftsman, but inside, the house was warmly lit and quiet. Marcus leaned against the granite island, turning a half-empty bottle of Cabernet in his hands while he watched his wife.

"So, the reservation at the bistro is at eight," Marcus said.

Elena sighed, slipping off her work heels and abandoning them by the hallway rug. She walked over, pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet, and set them next to the bottle. "I know it’s our tenth anniversary, Marc, but honestly? The thought of putting on a dress and shouting over a crowded dining room sounds exhausting."

Marcus broke into a slow, relieved smile. "I was hoping you'd say that. I really didn't want to wear a tie." He reached for the corkscrew and twisted it smoothly into the cork. "What’s the alternative?"

"Well," Elena said, walking over to the refrigerator and actively rummaging through the freezer. "We have those ribeyes we bought at the farmer's market. I can make my garlic herb butter, and you can roast those rosemary potatoes you perfected last Thanksgiving."

"Steak and potatoes. A flawless pivot." Marcus poured them each a glass of the dark red wine. "And for entertainment?"

"No phones," Elena declared, walking back to take her glass. "We light a fire, put on the Miles Davis record we bought on our honeymoon, and actually talk to each other. Maybe we can finally tackle that thousand-piece puzzle sitting in the den."

Marcus clinked his glass against hers, the crystal chiming softly in the quiet kitchen. "A decade of marriage, and you still know exactly the way to my heart."

Elena smiled, the tension of the long week finally melting from her shoulders. "Cancel the reservation," she said, reaching for her apron. "I’ll start the oven."


"Cancel the reservation at L'Auberge," Mark said, setting his tablet on the granite kitchen island. "Unless you really want to spend three hundred dollars to eat tiny portions in a noisy room."

Sarah paused her chopping, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Honestly? I'd rather have sweatpants and your homemade lasagna. Twenty years feels too important to share with a crowded dining room of strangers."

Mark walked over, stealing a slice of red bell pepper from her cutting board. "Lasagna it is. We can finally open that reserve Cabernet we brought back from Napa last summer."

"And absolutely no phones," Sarah added, pointing the chef's knife at him in mock sternness. "I don't want to see a single work email from your office. Just us, the good wine, and maybe we finally dust off the wedding video."

Mark groaned, though his eyes crinkled with genuine warmth. "You mean the one where my brother tripped over the DJ's power cord during our first dance?"

"Exactly that one," Sarah laughed, scraping the diced vegetables into a sizzling skillet.

Mark stepped behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin comfortably on her shoulder. "A quiet Tuesday night in the suburbs. Just you, me, and a twenty-year-old DVD."

"It's perfect," she said, leaning back against his chest.

They had spent their tenth anniversary on a beach in Maui, and their fifteenth surrounded by fifty friends at a rented banquet hall. But as they stood in the warm, familiar glow of their kitchen, they both knew this was exactly what they wanted. No pageantry, no exhausting travel logistics. Just the quiet, hard-earned comfort of a life built together, celebrated exactly the way they lived it.


Rain lashed against the bay window of their Chicago townhouse, effectively making the evening's decision for them.

"So much for the rooftop reservation," Marcus said, leaning against the kitchen counter. He deftly uncorked a bottle of Pinot Noir, the pop echoing softly over the steady hum of the refrigerator.

Elena scrolled through the glowing screen of her tablet, absentmindedly tucking a stray curl behind her ear. "Honestly? I'm relieved. The idea of shouting over loud jazz on our tenth anniversary wasn't exactly thrilling me anyway." She set the device down and looked up, offering a warm, tired smile. "Are you really okay with staying in?"

"More than okay." Marcus handed her a wine glass. He stepped over to the pantry and began assessing their options. "We have that artisanal pasta we brought back from Seattle, fresh garlic, and half a block of parmesan. I can whip up an aglio e olio in twenty minutes."

"Only if I roast the asparagus and pick the movie," Elena countered. She opened the fridge to retrieve the vegetables and a lemon, immediately moving to the sink to wash them. "And no action movies tonight. I want something with an actual plot."

Marcus laughed, reaching up to grab his favorite heavy cast-iron skillet from the rack. "Deal. A quiet night, a decent plot, and a mountain of carbs. Exactly how we spent our first anniversary in that drafty apartment on Elm Street."

Elena paused, the wet bundle of greens in her hands, and stepped closer to him. She rested her forehead against his shoulder for a brief, quiet moment, listening to the rain. "Ten years," she murmured.

"Ten years," Marcus agreed, kissing the top of her head. "Go queue up the movie. I'll get the water boiling."


The rain lashing against the windows of their Seattle townhouse only made the kitchen feel warmer. It was their tenth wedding anniversary, and after a decade of crowded reservations and rushed weekend getaways, Mark and Elena had mutually agreed on a different kind of celebration: staying exactly where they were.

Mark stood at the stove, carefully basting two ribeye steaks in a cast-iron skillet with butter and fresh rosemary. "I still think we should have gotten the lobster," he teased over the loud sizzle, glancing over his shoulder. "It's a milestone year, after all."

Elena laughed, effortlessly twisting the cork out of a bottle of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. "We tried cooking lobster for our third anniversary, remember? The pot boiled over, the shells wouldn't crack, and we ended up ordering pizza at ten p.m. I’ll take your perfect steak over a kitchen disaster any day." She poured the ruby liquid into two wide-bowled glasses and carried them over to the kitchen island.

Handing him a glass, she leaned in to kiss his cheek. "Besides, tonight is about us, not the menu."

Mark clinked his glass against hers, taking a slow sip. He turned the heat down on the stove and wiped his hands on his apron. "Fair point. Can you cue up the playlist? The one you made for the coast road trip last summer?"

Elena nodded, retrieving her phone from the counter. As the soft, familiar chords of an old acoustic track filled the room, she walked into the dining area to light the tapered candles she’d bought specifically for tonight. She adjusted the linen napkins, taking a quiet moment to admire the intimacy of their home.

Mark brought the plates over, the rich aroma of garlic and roasted vegetables following him. They sat down together, the storm outside entirely forgotten, perfectly content in the life they had built.


Mark chopped fresh basil on the wooden cutting board, the sharp, earthy scent filling the warmly lit kitchen of their Chicago townhouse. Rain tapped steadily against the windowpane, providing the perfect excuse to abandon their reservations at the trendy downtown French restaurant.

Sarah walked in, slipping off her damp trench coat and hanging it on the hook by the door. She stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her chin on his shoulder. "Smells amazing. Ten years of marriage, and you still know exactly how to bypass my heart and go straight for my stomach."

Mark chuckled, turning his head to press a kiss into her hair. "Well, I figured since we canceled the reservation, I had to step up my game. Chicken parmesan. Your favorite."

"Best decision we've made all week," Sarah said. She stepped away to open the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of Pinot Noir they had been saving since a trip to Sonoma three years ago. She grabbed a corkscrew from the drawer, expertly opened the bottle, and poured them each a generous glass. "The idea of shouting over a crowded, noisy dining room tonight just sounded exhausting."

"Exactly," Mark agreed, sliding the baking dish into the oven and wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. He turned and took the wine glass she offered him. "I'd much rather be right here. Just us."

Sarah clinked her glass against his, her eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine warmth. "Happy anniversary, Mark. Ten down, a lifetime to go."

"Happy anniversary," he smiled, taking a slow sip.

Together, they moved into the living room. Sarah lit a cluster of amber candles on the coffee table while Mark queued up the jazz playlist from their wedding reception, both completely content with the quiet, simple magic of their own home.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland townhouse, but inside, the air was warm and smelled heavily of rosemary. Mark stood at the butcher-block island, carefully scoring the fat of two thick ribeye steaks.

"Are you absolutely sure you aren’t disappointed we canceled the reservation at Le Pigeon?" he asked, glancing up.

Elena uncorked the Cabernet, the soft *pop* barely audible over the crackling of the fireplace in the next room. "Positive," she said, pouring two generous glasses. "Ten years is a huge milestone, but the thought of shouting over a crowded, pretentious dining room sounded exhausting. I just want you, me, and zero expectations."

Mark laughed, accepting the glass she handed him. "Zero expectations it is. Though I did put on a clean sweater for the occasion."

"I appreciate the effort," Elena smiled. She walked over to the small kitchen table, deliberately ignoring the formal dining room. She struck a match, lighting the two tall beeswax tapers she had bought specifically for tonight. The soft yellow glow caught the silver at Mark’s temples, a gentle, fond reminder of the decade they had shared.

Mark turned on the vent hood and carefully laid the steaks into the hot cast-iron pan, a loud hiss filling the room. He wiped his hands on his apron, stepped away from the stove, and walked up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Elena leaned back against his chest, resting her hands over his.

"Ten years," Mark murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Best decade of my life."

"Even with the disastrous kitchen remodel of twenty-twenty?" she teased.

"Even with the remodel."

Elena turned around in his arms, lifting her glass. "To ten years," she said, tapping her rim against his. "And to staying exactly where we are."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago brownstone, but inside, the air was warm and heavy with the scent of roasting garlic. It was their tenth wedding anniversary. Instead of braving the downtown traffic for a crowded, overpriced reservation, Sarah and Mark had agreed on a different kind of celebration.

"How's the risotto coming along?" Sarah asked, pulling a dusty bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon from the bottom of the wine rack. She wiped the label with her thumb, smiling at the vintage—the same year they were married.

"Almost there," Mark said, stirring the Arborio rice with a wooden spoon. He adjusted the flame on the gas stove, keeping his movements steady and precise. "Just needs another splash of chicken broth. Did you find the good glasses?"

"Top shelf, naturally," Sarah replied. She stepped onto a stool, carefully bringing down two crystal wine glasses they hadn't used since last New Year's Eve. She carried them to the dining table, where she had already arranged a pair of beeswax candles and laid out their freshly ironed linen napkins.

Mark grabbed a small metal spoon, blew on the creamy rice, and held it out to her across the kitchen island. "Taste test. Is it missing anything?"

Sarah leaned over, taking a careful bite. The rich, earthy flavors of parmesan, mushroom, and thyme melted on her tongue. "It’s perfect," she murmured. "Honestly, it's better than that place we went to in Little Italy."

"See? I told you staying in was the right call," Mark grinned, turning off the burner. He untied his apron and draped it over a chair.

Sarah poured the dark ruby wine into their glasses, handing one to her husband. "To ten years," she said softly, clinking her crystal against his. "And to nowhere I'd rather be."


The kitchen smelled intensely of garlic and rosemary, a welcome departure from their usual Tuesday night takeout. Mark adjusted the heat under the cast-iron skillet, using metal tongs to carefully flip the thick ribeye steaks.

"Are you sure we don't need the exhaust fan?" Sarah asked. She leaned over the kitchen island, expertly working a corkscrew into a bottle of Cabernet. She poured two glasses, the crystal catching the warm, dim light from the overhead pendant, and handed one to her husband.

"And drown out the jazz?" Mark smiled, taking the glass. "Never. Besides, setting off the smoke detector is practically an anniversary tradition."

Sarah laughed, nudging his hip with hers. Ten years ago today, they had said their vows in a crowded, overpriced hotel ballroom. Tonight, they had mutually agreed to skip the bustling downtown Chicago restaurants. No impossible reservations, no shouting to be heard over a packed dining room—just the two of them in their own home.

While Mark finished plating the steaks, Sarah carried the wine and a bowl of roasted asparagus to the small dining table. She had spent the afternoon clearing away the usual clutter of mail and laptops, replacing it with a linen runner and three thick pillar candles. She struck a match, the quick sulfur scent briefly masking the garlic, and lit the wicks.

Mark brought the plates over, setting them down gently. He pulled out her chair, a chivalrous gesture he usually reserved for special occasions.

"Happy tenth anniversary, Sarah," he said, taking his seat across from her.

Sarah raised her glass, clinking it gently against his. The quiet crackle of the candles and the soft saxophone from the living room speaker filled the space between them. "Happy anniversary," she replied. "Best table in town."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and deliberate. Ten years of marriage called for a milestone celebration, but after a decade of crowded restaurants and overpriced tasting menus, Sarah and David had agreed on a different approach this year: a quiet, intentional evening at home.

"I picked up the ribeyes from the butcher down the street," David said, pulling the paper-wrapped package from the fridge. "They've been dry-brining since this morning. Should I brave the weather and start the charcoal, or are we thinking cast iron?"

Sarah looked up from her tablet, where she was scrolling through a wild mushroom risotto recipe. "Let’s do the cast iron. I don't want you standing out in the freezing rain just for a grill mark." She walked over and bumped her shoulder affectionately against his. "Plus, the butter-baste smells better in the house anyway."

"Cast iron it is." David turned to the wine rack, carefully extracting a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon they had purchased on their anniversary trip to Napa five years ago. "I'll decant this now so it has time to breathe. What’s your timeline on the risotto?"

"Give me about forty-five minutes," Sarah said, pulling a heavy enameled Dutch oven from the bottom cabinet and setting it on the stove. "I need to get the broth simmering first. Can you cue up that jazz playlist we listened to in New Orleans? And maybe light the fireplace in the living room?"

"Consider it done," David smiled, grabbing the corkscrew.

They moved around the small kitchen in an effortless, unspoken dance built on ten years of shared space. There were no extravagant surprises tonight—just the promise of a homemade meal, a crackling fire, and each other's undivided attention.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and steeped in the comforting aroma of garlic and tomatoes. Mark wiped his hands on a striped dish towel and leaned over the simmering pot of marinara, giving it a gentle stir.

"Are you sure you don't mind skipping the fancy downtown steakhouse?" he asked, adjusting the burner's flame. "Ten years is a big milestone. We could have called an Uber and braved the storm."

Sarah smiled, pulling two heavy crystal wine glasses from the top cabinet. She set them on the granite island and smoothly uncorked the bottle of Chianti they’d been saving since a vacation three years ago.

"Mark, I’ve spent the entire week in heels pitching to stressed-out executives," she said, pouring a generous measure into each glass. She handed him one, her fingers lingering against his. "The absolute last thing I wanted tonight was to squeeze into a cocktail dress and shout over the noise of a crowded dining room. This is exactly what I want."

He clinked his glass against hers. "Sweatpants and homemade baked ziti. You really are my dream woman."

Sarah laughed, taking a slow sip. She walked over to the smart speaker on the counter. "Play the acoustic jazz playlist," she instructed, and the soft, muted notes of a saxophone began to fill the kitchen.

She moved to the dining alcove, dimming the overhead lights and lighting a pair of tapered candles she had bought specifically for tonight. Mark carried over the steaming platter of pasta. He pulled her chair out for her—a small, deliberate gesture of chivalry that he hadn't forgotten in a decade.

"Happy anniversary, Sarah," he said, taking his seat across from her.

"Happy anniversary," she replied, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. "Here's to the quiet moments."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the warm glow of the pendant lights made the space feel like a sanctuary. Mark leaned over the granite island, meticulously slicing a baguette for their appetizers, while Sarah scrolled through a list of restaurant confirmations on her tablet.

"I just canceled the reservation at Le Petit Chat," Sarah announced, setting the tablet face-down on the counter. She reached over and stole a slice of the bread Mark had just cut.

Mark paused, the serrated knife hovering mid-air. "Are you sure? It’s our tenth anniversary, Sar. People usually do the whole five-course tasting menu thing to celebrate a decade."

"I'm positive," she said, leaning against the counter to meet his gaze. "I don't want to spend three hours shouting over a crowded dining room, wearing shoes that pinch. I want to celebrate *us*, not put on a show."

A slow, relieved smile spread across Mark’s face. He set the knife down and wiped his hands on his apron. "Honestly, that’s the best news I’ve heard all week. So, what’s the revised plan for Friday?"

"I was thinking we pull the air mattress into the living room," Sarah said, her eyes lighting up with the same mischief he loved when they first met. "Build a fire. Order that ridiculous deep-dish pizza from Lou's we haven't had since our twenties, and open the bottle of Barolo we brought back from our honeymoon."

Mark chuckled, stepping around the island to pull her into a comfortable hug. "Pizza, sweatpants, and a two-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. It’s unconventional."

"It’s perfectly us," she corrected, resting her chin on his chest.

"Then it's settled," Mark said, kissing the top of her head. "I'll queue up the movies, you call in the pizza. Ten years down, and I wouldn't want to spend it any other way."


Morning sunlight washed over the kitchen island where Mark sat, his brow furrowed as he scrolled through restaurant reservations on his phone. Sarah set a steaming mug of dark roast coffee in front of him, leaning over to rest her chin on his shoulder.

"Downtown is completely booked," Mark sighed, tossing his phone onto the counter. "Even that French place we went to for our fifth. I can keep looking, or we could try to walk in somewhere."

Sarah wrapped her hands around her own mug, shaking her head. "Honestly? Fighting Friday evening traffic and shouting over a crowded dining room doesn't sound appealing for our tenth anniversary. Let's just do a quiet night here."

Mark looked up, a slow smile replacing his frown. "Are you sure? It’s a major milestone. I don't want you to feel like we didn't celebrate."

"I'm positive," Sarah said, pulling out a barstool and sitting beside him. "Remember our first anniversary? We were so broke we couldn't even afford a decent dinner out. We made homemade fettuccine from scratch, and it took four hours."

"And there was flour all over the ceiling," Mark laughed, his eyes brightening at the memory. He tapped his fingers on the quartz countertop. "Okay, let's recreate it. But better this time."

"Deal," Sarah agreed. She finished her coffee and stood. "I'll dig the pasta maker out of the basement and find the exact recipe. I'll also queue up *Casablanca*, since we fell asleep halfway through it ten years ago."

"Perfect. I’ll take care of the supplies," Mark said, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. "I'll hit the Italian market on Fourth Street for the good parmesan, fresh basil, and a really nice bottle of Chianti. Text me if you think of anything else."

Sarah smiled as he leaned in to kiss her forehead. "Just hurry back. We have a mess to make."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland townhome, but inside, the warm glow of the pendant lights kept the dreary Tuesday at bay. Marcus leaned against the granite counter, methodically drying a ceramic bowl, while Sarah scrolled through her tablet at the kitchen island, a half-empty mug of tea beside her.

"So, the big ten is next Friday," Marcus said, setting the bowl down. "The new French place downtown just posted a cancellation for an eight o'clock table. I can grab the reservation right now if you want."

Sarah looked up, resting her chin in her hand. "Le Petit Chateau? It’s gorgeous, Marcus, but... do we really want to spend our tenth anniversary shouting over a crowded, noisy dining room?"

Marcus chuckled, tossing the dish towel aside and walking over to her. "Honestly? No. I was just trying to be the romantic husband. What did you have in mind?"

"I was thinking," Sarah began, her eyes brightening as she turned the tablet face down. "We recreate our very first anniversary. Remember the tiny, drafty apartment back in Chicago?"

"The burnt frozen pizza and the famously cheap Chianti?" Marcus asked. He stood behind her, resting his hands comfortably on her shoulders.

"Exactly." Sarah leaned back into his touch, smiling. "But an upgraded version. We make homemade pizzas together—completely from scratch this time. I'll leave the office early and pick up a really good bottle of Sangiovese from the wine shop on Elm Street."

"And I’ll queue up *Casablanca*," Marcus added, fully catching the vision. "I'll even make sure the living room fireplace is actually working, unlike that old sputtering radiator."

Sarah reached up to cover his hand with hers. "It sounds perfect. No dress codes, no parking nightmares. Just us."

"Just us," Marcus agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her


Rain lashed against the living room windows of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the kitchen was wrapped in the warm, savory aroma of roasting garlic and rosemary.

"Are you sure we shouldn't have braved the storm for a reservation?" David asked, leaning over the island to hand Elena a freshly washed bunch of asparagus.

Elena took the vegetables, deftly trimming the woody ends with a chef’s knife. "Absolutely positive. Our tenth anniversary deserves better than shouting over a crowded dining room and paying fifty dollars for downtown parking." She nudged him playfully with her hip. "Besides, your mushroom risotto is infinitely better than anything at that fancy bistro."

David smiled, turning back to the stove. He added a ladle of warm broth to the simmering Arborio rice, stirring in slow, rhythmic circles. "Flattery will get you everywhere. Though I think the real star tonight is going to be that 2014 Cabernet you’ve been hoarding in the coat closet."

"It’s not hoarding, it’s *cellaring*," Elena corrected with a laugh. She wiped her hands on a linen towel and walked over to the dining room table. They had mutually agreed on a quiet night in,


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland townhome, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and steeped in the scent of roasted garlic. Mark stood at the stove, carefully stirring a pan of mushroom risotto. He wiped a streak of flour from his forehead with the back of his wrist.

"Ten years," Sarah said, walking into the kitchen carrying two crystal wine glasses and a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir. She set them on the granite island and expertly twisted the corkscrew. "Did you ever think we’d make it a whole decade without killing each other over whose turn it is to take out the recycling?"

Mark chuckled, turning down the heat on the burner. "I had my doubts during the great cardboard box standoff of 2018. But here we are."

Sarah poured the dark red wine, sliding a glass across the counter to him. They had both agreed to skip the crowded restaurants tonight. For their tenth anniversary, staying in their comfortable clothes and cooking the exact meal they had shared on their first date felt like the ultimate luxury.

"Taste this," Mark said, scooping up a small spoonful of risotto and blowing on it.

Sarah leaned over the island and took a bite. "Perfect. You remembered the truffle oil." She walked around the counter, grabbing a pair of tongs to flip the asparagus roasting on a baking sheet. "I’ve got the vegetables. You just focus on not burning the scallops."

Together, they moved through the small kitchen in an effortless, choreographed dance born of a decade of shared space. Once the plates were arranged, Sarah lit two tapered candles on the small dining table. Mark brought the food over, the savory steam rising between them. He pulled out her chair, kissed the top of her head, and took his own seat.

"Happy anniversary, Sarah," he said softly, raising his glass.

She smiled, tapping the rim of her crystal against his. "Happy anniversary, Mark. Here's to the quiet nights."


Rain lashed against the living room window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the kitchen was warm and smelled of roasting rosemary and garlic. Sarah wiped her hands on a striped apron and carefully pulled the cast-iron skillet from the oven.

"Perfect timing," Mark said, walking into the kitchen with a dusty bottle of Pinot Noir and two crystal glasses. He set them on the granite island and reached for the corkscrew. "I found the 2014 vintage. Exactly ten years old, just like our marriage."

"I can't believe it's been a decade," Sarah said, smiling as she transferred the herb-crusted salmon to a ceramic serving platter. "Thank you for finding that. I know it was buried behind the holiday decorations in the basement."

Mark popped the cork, the soft *thwomp* a satisfying sound over the hum of the quiet jazz playlist he had queued up earlier. He poured two generous glasses, then moved to the small dining table to light the taper candles. They had debated making reservations at that new upscale French place downtown, but the thought of shouting over a crowded dining room felt exhausting. After ten years of shared mortgages, career changes, and adopting two golden retrievers, a quiet Tuesday night at home felt far more authentic to who they had become.

Sarah brought the platter to the table, her shoulder brushing against Mark's as he adjusted the silver forks. He paused, leaning down to press a soft kiss to her temple.

"Happy anniversary, Sarah. Ten years."

"Happy anniversary," she replied, pulling out her chair. She took her glass, the ruby liquid catching the flicker of the candlelight. "To us. And to staying in."

Mark clinked his glass against hers. "Best table in the city."


Mark stood at the kitchen island, carefully trimming the fat from two thick ribeye steaks. The heavy cast-iron skillet was already heating on the stove, beginning to smoke just the way he liked it. Outside their house in the Chicago suburbs, a cold November rain washed the streets, making the warmth of the kitchen feel even more inviting.

Sarah walked in from the living room, having just cued up a low-volume playlist of jazz and acoustic covers on the stereo. She carried two crystal wine glasses—a wedding gift they pulled out exactly once a year—and a bottle of a Napa Valley Cabernet they had been saving. She set them on the small dining table, which she had already draped with a crisp linen cloth and anchored with a single candle.

"Ten years," Sarah said, pulling the cork with a soft *thwack*. "Can you believe my mother still called this morning to ask if we were absolutely sure we didn't want a reservation at some overpriced downtown place?"

Mark chuckled, aggressively seasoning the meat with coarse salt and cracked pepper. "I'm positive. I spend enough time shouting over crowded tables for work. Tonight, it’s just us, the good wine, and absolutely no dress code."

Sarah poured the dark red wine, pausing to appreciate the rich, oaky scent before handing a glass to Mark. "To a whole decade," she toasted, leaning over the counter to kiss his cheek. "Surviving my terrible sense of direction and your endless obsession with cast-iron maintenance."

Mark smiled, tapping his glass against hers with a gentle chime. As the steaks hit the hot pan with a fierce hiss, filling the room with a mouthwatering aroma, they both knew this quiet, shared sanctuary was the perfect way to celebrate the life they had built.


Rain tapped gently against the kitchen window of their Portland craftsman, wrapping the house in a cozy chill. Tonight marked exactly ten years since David and Elena had said their vows, a milestone that practically begged for a reservation at a high-end restaurant downtown. Instead, they had collectively opted for sweatpants and their own kitchen.

David leaned over the butcher block island, expertly massaging a rosemary and garlic dry rub into two thick ribeye steaks. "I still can't believe we canceled the reservation at Le Pigeon," he said, shaking his head with a slight smile. "Are you absolutely sure you aren't going to regret missing out on the duck confit?"

Elena laughed, uncorking a bottle of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir. She poured two generous glasses and slid one across the marble counter. "Positive. After the week I've had at the clinic, the thought of putting on heels felt like a punishment. Besides, your steaks are better."

She turned her attention to the small dining nook, laying out their good linen napkins—a wedding gift they rarely remembered to use—and lighting a pair of tall taper candles. David dropped the steaks onto the preheated cast-iron skillet, the immediate sizzle filling the room with a rich, peppery aroma. He grabbed a pair of tongs, reaching out with his free hand to catch Elena’s waist as she walked back to the stove.

"Ten years," David murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "We survived three cramped apartments, one terrible cross-country road trip, and a pandemic."

"And we still actually like each other," Elena replied, leaning into his shoulder as the jazz playlist she selected began to play softly from the living room. She clinked her wine glass against his. "Here's to a very quiet, very perfect decade."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of Sarah and Mark’s Chicago townhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and decidedly low-key. Tonight was their tenth wedding anniversary. While their friends had expected them to throw a lavish party or book a weekend getaway, the couple had mutually agreed on something much rarer in their hectic lives: a quiet, uninterrupted evening at home.

Sarah leaned against the granite counter, adjusting her glasses as she scrolled through a digital recipe for mushroom risotto. "Are you sure we have enough arborio rice?" she asked, pulling open the pantry door to inspect the shelves.

"I picked up a fresh box on my way home from the clinic," Mark said. He stepped up beside her, gently bumping his shoulder against hers, and set a dusty bottle of Pinot Noir on the kitchen island. "I also grabbed the good parmesan from the deli down the street. The aged one you like."

"You're a lifesaver," Sarah smiled, handing him a wooden cutting board and a basket of cremini mushrooms. "You chop, I'll start the broth?"

"Deal." Mark rolled up the sleeves of his button-down shirt and grabbed a chef’s knife. As he fell into a rhythmic chopping motion, he glanced over at his wife. She was already stirring butter and minced garlic in a heavy Dutch oven, the rich, savory scent instantly filling the room.

"Ten years," Mark mused, scraping the sliced mushrooms into a glass bowl. "Did you ever think we'd be celebrating a whole decade by wearing sweatpants and cooking our own dinner?"

Sarah laughed, an easy, familiar sound, and turned to him. "Honestly? It’s exactly what I wanted."

Mark popped the cork on the wine and poured two generous glasses. He handed one to Sarah, raising his own in the warm kitchen light. "To ten years," he said softly. "And to staying in."


The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of their Chicago townhouse, casting long shadows across the granite kitchen island. Sarah leaned over a battered leather notebook, tapping her pen against her chin.

"So, a decade," she said, glancing up. "Ten years. Everyone keeps asking if we're throwing a huge party, or if we're renting out a restaurant."

Mark paused halfway to the fridge, leaning against the counter. "I had three different guys at the firm ask me where I was taking you. Apparently, a trip to Cabo is the standard." He chuckled, opening the fridge to pull out two sparkling waters. He popped the tab on one and slid it across the island to her. "But I really don’t want to deal with airports."

"Neither do I," Sarah agreed, catching the cold can. "I just want it to be us. No catering, no small talk. What if we recreate the dinner from our honeymoon? That little trattoria in Rome?"

Mark’s eyes lit up. "The cacio e pepe? I can definitely do that. I've spent the last three years perfecting the Pecorino to pasta water ratio. If you handle the bruschetta and the ambiance, I’ll take care of the main course."

"Deal," Sarah said, writing *Pecorino, fresh basil, sourdough* on her grocery list. "I'll pick up some pillar candles, too. Put together a good playlist. What about wine?"

"I’ve got that covered," Mark said, walking around the island to wrap his arms around her shoulders from behind, resting his chin briefly against her temple. "I found a bottle of the exact Sangiovese we drank that night. I've been saving it in the back of the wine fridge for six months."

Sarah smiled, leaning back into his embrace. "Pasta, good wine, and nowhere to be. Sounds like the perfect ten years to me."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the warm glow of the pendant lights made the autumn weather irrelevant. Sarah leaned against the quartz counter, tapping her pen against a notepad.

"Ten years," she said, shaking her head. "A decade of marriage. I feel like we should be jetting off to Paris, but honestly? The thought of airports right now exhausts me."

Mark looked up from the vegetables he was chopping for their Tuesday night stir-fry. He set his knife down and wiped his hands on a dish towel. "I'm entirely with you. Besides, our best nights are usually right here. Why don't we just do a massive upgrade to our usual weekend routine?"

Sarah’s eyes lit up. "Okay, I like that. What if we finally tackle that beef Wellington recipe from the cookbook your mom gave us?"

"Deal," Mark smiled, leaning across the kitchen island to kiss her forehead. "I'll take point on the butcher run and handle the pastry. You have the magic touch with the mushroom duxelles."

"And the wine," Sarah added, scribbling *cremini mushrooms* and *prosciutto* onto her grocery list. "I'll swing by that boutique wine shop downtown after work on Friday. We can finally splurge on a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. The real stuff."

"Perfect. I’ll curate a playlist. No jazz this time—strictly that indie folk stuff we listened to on our honeymoon road trip up to Maine." Mark resumed his chopping, a comfortable, familiar rhythm returning to the kitchen.

"Dinner, good wine, nostalgic music, and absolutely no cell phones," Sarah finalized, drawing a thick line under her list. She looked over at her husband, feeling a deep, quiet contentment. It wasn't Paris, but as they stood in the home they had built together, there was nowhere else she’d rather be.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland home, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and fragrant with roasting garlic. Mark smoothly pulled the cork from a bottle of Willamette Valley Pinot Noir, while Sarah stood at the kitchen island, expertly dicing heirloom tomatoes.

"Ten years," Mark said, pouring the ruby liquid into two waiting glasses. He slid one across the granite counter to her. "A whole decade of marriage. Are you absolutely sure you aren't secretly wishing we were at some overpriced downtown restaurant right now?"

Sarah laughed, wiping her hands on her apron before taking a sip of the wine. "God, no. Battling Friday night traffic in a downpour so we can shout over loud ambient music? This is exactly what I want." She turned back to the cutting board, scraping the tomatoes into a sizzling skillet. "Besides, my homemade bruschetta beats anything we'd pay twenty bucks for."

"Fair point," Mark agreed. He walked over to the vintage turntable in the corner of the open-plan living room, flipping through a small stack of vinyl. He pulled out the John Coltrane album they had played at their wedding reception, carefully dropping the needle. A soft, familiar saxophone melody drifted back into the kitchen.

Returning to the island, Mark took over stirring the pasta sauce so Sarah could check on the garlic bread in the oven. They moved around each other with the practiced, comfortable choreography of two people who had shared the same space for a third of their lives.

Sarah pulled the tray out, the golden crusts perfectly toasted. She set it on the stove and leaned back against the counter, looking at Mark. He smiled, abandoning the wooden spoon to step close and wrap an arm around her waist.

"Happy anniversary, Sarah."

She rested her head against his shoulder, listening to the rain. "Happy anniversary, Mark."


Rain tapped softly against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and distinctly aromatic. Sarah stood at the kitchen island, meticulously chopping fresh rosemary, while Mark wrestled with the cork of a 2014 Cabernet Sauvignon.

"Ten years," Mark said, finally popping the cork with a soft *thwump*. He poured the dark red wine into two oversized glasses. "A whole decade of marriage. Are you absolutely sure you don't want to brave the weather for that fancy reservation downtown?"

Sarah scraped the herbs into a waiting skillet of sizzling butter, releasing a fragrant cloud into the room. She looked up, wiping a stray curl from her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Positive. There is nowhere I'd rather be than right here in sweatpants, avoiding the rush hour traffic. We've spent the last three anniversaries at loud, crowded restaurants. I just want *us* tonight."

Mark smiled, handing her a glass. "Us, and a massive pot of wild mushroom risotto."

"Exactly." Sarah clinked her glass against his. "Speaking of which, you're on stirring duty. My arm is already tired."

Mark stepped up to the stove, seamlessly taking the wooden spoon from her hand. He began the slow, rhythmic stirring that the dish demanded. "I stopped by the bakery on my way home," he added, keeping his eyes on the simmering broth. "I picked up those pistachio cannolis you love. I figured we could eat them on the couch while we finally watch that documentary."

"You remembered the cannolis?" Sarah leaned against the counter, a soft, genuine smile spreading across her face.

"Of course I did," Mark replied, pulling her in by the waist for a brief, familiar kiss. "Happy anniversary, Sarah."

"Happy anniversary," she whispered back, completely content with their quiet, perfect evening.


Rain lashed against the front windows of their Portland craftsman, but inside, the house was warm with the rich smell of roasting garlic. It was their tenth anniversary, a milestone that society dictated should be celebrated with a lavish vacation or a reservation at a Michelin-starred restaurant downtown. Sarah and David had deliberately chosen otherwise.

"Did you find the corkscrew?" David called from the kitchen island, wiping his hands on a flour-dusted apron. He was attempting to recreate the mushroom risotto from their honeymoon in Tuscany, a risky endeavor he was tackling with focused determination.

Sarah appeared in the archway, holding up the silver tool like a prize. "Found it hiding behind the coffee beans," she said, stepping into the kitchen. She expertly uncorked the bottle of Barolo they had been saving for exactly this occasion, pouring two generous glasses. "And I cued up that jazz playlist you like. The one with Coltrane."

David accepted the glass, taking a slow sip before sighing in appreciation. "Perfect. The risotto needs about twenty more minutes of constant stirring. My arm is already numb."

"I'll take over," Sarah offered, nudging him aside with her hip. She took the wooden spoon, the rising steam gently fogging her glasses. "You go light the fireplace. And figure out which movie we're watching. If it has aliens or explosions, I'm vetoing it."

David laughed, kissing her temple as he passed. "No explosions. I promise. Ten years of marriage is enough excitement for one lifetime."

As David knelt by the hearth in the next room, striking a match, Sarah leaned against the counter, stirring the simmering broth. Listening to the crackle of the wood and the soft jazz drifting through their home, she realized this quiet, shared rhythm was exactly what a successful decade looked like.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland home, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and filled with the rich aroma of roasting garlic. It was their tenth wedding anniversary, and instead of braving the downtown traffic for a crowded, overpriced reservation, Sarah and Mark had mutually agreed on a quiet night in.

Mark stood at the butcher block island, carefully trimming the ends off a bundle of asparagus. "I still think we made the right call," he said, tossing the vibrant green stalks into a glass bowl and drizzling them with olive oil. "Remember that cramped French place we went to for year five?"

Sarah laughed from the stove, where she was methodically stirring a simmering pot of mushroom risotto. "How could I forget? We spent two hours bumping elbows with a stranger while eating cold duck." She tasted the broth from her wooden spoon and reached for the salt shaker. "Grab the parmesan, would you?"

Mark wiped his hands on a dish towel and retrieved the cheese from the fridge, grating a generous mound directly into the steaming pot. They moved around each other with the effortless choreography of a decade spent sharing the same space. He took over the stirring while Sarah stepped away to set the dining room table. She lit two tapered candles and brought out the good silver—a wedding gift they rarely remembered to use.

"Steaks are ready for the cast iron," Mark announced, carrying a platter of perfectly seasoned ribeyes to the stove.

"And the wine needs opening," Sarah replied, returning to the kitchen with a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir they had been saving for exactly this occasion. She handed him the corkscrew.

Mark popped the cork with a soft *thwack*, pouring two generous glasses. He handed one to Sarah, his eyes catching the soft, flickering light reflecting in hers. "Happy ten years, Sarah."

"Happy ten years," she smiled, stepping in close and clinking her glass against his.


The kitchen smelled intensely of roasting garlic and rosemary, warming the chilly autumn air that pressed against the windows of their Ohio home. Elena wiped her hands on a striped dish towel, leaning over the open oven door to check the sizzling lamb chops.

"Ten years," she said, shutting the oven and turning to her husband. "Can you believe we actually survived a whole decade?"

Mark chuckled from the adjacent dining room, where he was carefully arranging two silver candlesticks. "I think the real miracle is that we survived that first apartment with the broken radiator." He struck a match, the brief scent of sulfur giving way to a warm, golden glow that illuminated the small table.

They had agreed weeks ago to skip the overpriced downtown restaurants. A Tuesday night didn’t call for crowded dining rooms or stiff clothes; it called for comfortable sweaters, a great bottle of wine, and the quiet intimacy of their own home.

Mark walked into the kitchen and peeled the foil off a bottle of Cabernet they’d been saving since a trip to Napa five years ago. He eased the cork out with a soft pop and poured two generous measures, handing Elena a glass. His fingers lingered briefly against hers.

"I set up the record player, too," Mark said, taking a sip. "Miles Davis. Unless you want to pick something else?"

"Miles Davis is perfect," Elena smiled, the dark wine warming her chest. She reached into the upper cabinet for the good plates—the porcelain ones they’d received as wedding gifts and rarely touched. "Can you grab the salad from the fridge? Dinner is just about done."

Mark nodded, retrieving the wooden bowl. As the soft, familiar crackle of a jazz trumpet drifted in from the living room, they moved around each other in the small kitchen with the effortless, synchronized choreography of two people who knew exactly where they belonged.


Rain lashed against the living room window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the kitchen was warm and smelled of roasting garlic and rosemary. Mark adjusted the flame under the cast-iron skillet, searing two thick ribeye steaks with a focused intensity.

"I think medium-rare is actually going to happen this time," Mark said over the sizzle, nudging the steaks with his tongs.

Across the marble island, Sarah laughed, smoothly driving a corkscrew into a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon they had been saving for exactly five years. "If it doesn't, we can always order a pizza. It wouldn’t be the first time." She poured two generous glasses, sliding one across the counter to him.

It was their tenth wedding anniversary. A decade ago, they had celebrated with two hundred people in a grand ballroom. Tonight, they had specifically agreed to avoid crowded downtown restaurants, overpriced tasting menus, and shouting over ambient noise just to hear each other speak.

Sarah left her wine to cue up a low-tempo jazz playlist on the smart speaker, dimming the overhead lights until the room was bathed in a soft, amber glow. She returned to the kitchen and leaned against Mark’s shoulder. He draped his free arm around her waist, kissing the top of her head.

"Much better than that trendy steakhouse we went to for our fifth," Sarah murmured, picking up her glass and clinking it against his.

"The one where the waiter kept interrupting?" Mark chuckled, transferring the meat to a wooden cutting board to let it rest. "Agreed. Besides, the company here is significantly better."

Sarah smiled, pulling a small, casually wrapped box from her cardigan pocket and setting it on the counter next to the wine. "Happy ten years, Mark. Now, let's eat."


Rain lashed against the living room windows of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the kitchen was warm and smelled of roasting garlic. Elena leaned over the marble island, adjusting her glasses as she inspected the digital meat thermometer.

"It needs another ten minutes," she announced, pulling the oven door shut. "Which gives us just enough time to deal with the wine."

Mark looked up from the dining table, where he was meticulously folding linen napkins. "Way ahead of you," he said. He walked over to the counter, uncorking the bottle of Cabernet they had saved from a trip to Napa Valley five years ago. He poured two glasses, sliding one across the smooth stone to his wife.

"Happy tenth anniversary, El," he said softly, clinking his glass against hers.

Elena took a sip, letting out a contented sigh. "Happy tenth. And thank you for agreeing to cancel the reservation at Le Petit Coq. I don't think I had the energy to yell over a crowded dining room tonight."

"Are you kidding?" Mark laughed, returning to the table to light the taper candles. "After the week I've had at the firm, trading a loud bistro for bare feet, a fire, and your famous rosemary chicken is the best gift you could give me."

Elena smiled, moving to the fridge to pull out the asparagus. She began snapping the woody ends off the stalks while Mark retrieved a cast-iron skillet, drizzling it with olive oil and setting it on the burner. They moved around each other with the effortless choreography of a decade spent sharing the same spaces. There were no grand gestures tonight, no surprise trips or expensive jewelry. Just the quiet hum of the oven, the rain on the glass, and the comfortable, steady rhythm of their life together.


Rain tapped gently against the kitchen window of their Portland home, blurring the streetlights into soft, amber smudges. Inside, the warm glow of the pendant lights illuminated the island where Elena and David stood, side by side, sorting through the Friday mail. Tomorrow was their tenth wedding anniversary, a milestone that felt to both of them monumental, yet comfortably ordinary.

"So," David said, tossing a glossy catalog into the recycling bin. He leaned against the granite counter, turning to face his wife. "Are we absolutely sure we want to cancel the reservation at Le Pigeon? If we call now, I can still salvage it."

Elena looked up from a stack of envelopes, offering a tired but deeply affectionate smile. "Positive. Ten years is wonderful, but honestly? The thought of shouting over a crowded dining room right now makes my head ache. I just want it to be us. Sweats, music, and no timeline."

"A quiet night in it is," David agreed, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "But if we’re staying home, I’m taking charge of the menu. No takeout. I’ll make the wild mushroom risotto."

"The risotto you spent three hours stirring last Valentine's Day?" Elena teased, stepping closer to wrap her arms loosely around his waist. "I accept. But only if I get to handle the wine pairing and the dessert."

David rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. "Deal. You can pick up those salted caramel tartlets from the bakery downtown."

"Already ordered them," Elena said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "And I pulled that bottle of Pinot we brought back from the Willamette trip out of the cellar."

David kissed her forehead. "Risotto, Pinot, and ten years of practice," he murmured. "Sounds like the best reservation in town."


Rain lashed against the windows of their Portland craftsman, but inside the kitchen, the atmosphere was warm and decidedly unhurried. Tonight was their tenth wedding anniversary, a milestone that usually demanded reservations at a bustling, overpriced restaurant, but Sarah and David had actively chosen otherwise.

"Did you find the corkscrew?" Sarah asked, expertly mincing cloves of garlic on the wooden butcher block. The sizzle of melting butter in a cast-iron skillet filled the room, carrying the scent of fresh rosemary.

"Right where you left it," David called back from the dining room. He appeared in the doorway, triumphantly holding a bottle of Cabernet they’d been saving since a trip to Napa Valley five years ago. He set it on the counter to breathe before wrapping his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Smells amazing. Ribeyes?"

"Only the best for a decade of putting up with you," she teased, turning her head to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "Can you cue up the record player? The jazz album we bought in New Orleans."

"On it." David stepped away, moving into the living room to sort through their vinyl collection. The soft crackle of a needle hitting a record soon drifted into the kitchen, followed by the mellow notes of a saxophone. He returned to dim the overhead lights, striking a match to light the taper candles in the center of their oak dining table.

Sarah slid the seared steaks onto two warmed plates, adding a generous scoop of garlic mashed potatoes to each. Ten years had brought career changes, two cross-country moves, and their fair share of stress, but orchestrating this quiet Friday night together felt like their greatest achievement.

David poured the dark ruby wine and raised his glass. "Happy anniversary, Sarah."

She smiled, tapping her glass against his. "Happy ten years. Now, let's eat before it gets cold."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland home, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and steeped in the scent of roasted garlic. Mark stood at the butcher block, carefully seasoning two thick ribeye steaks. Ten years of marriage had taught him exactly how much black pepper Sarah preferred—a lot.

"Did you find the corkscrew?" Sarah asked, hip-bumping the pantry door shut with a jar of marinated artichokes in her hand. She wore her faded college sweatpants, her hair piled into a messy bun that entirely defied the gravity of a special occasion.

"Right here," Mark said, expertly twisting the metal into the cork of a prized Cabernet they had been saving. "I still can't believe we actually canceled the reservation at Le Pigeon."

"Best decision we've made all year," Sarah replied. She took the open bottle from him and poured two generous glasses, handing one to Mark. "Fancy is overrated. Plus, I didn't want to shout across a crowded, pretentious dining room just to tell you I love you on our tenth anniversary."

Mark smiled, the familiar creases around his eyes deepening. He clinked his glass against hers. "To a decade. And to eating premium steak in our sweatpants."

Sarah laughed, taking a sip before turning to the stove to fire up the heavy cast-iron skillet. As the oil began to shimmer, Mark wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. Together, they watched the rain trace erratic paths down the dark glass. There was no grand orchestra, no waiters in crisp white shirts, just the comforting sizzle of the pan and the quiet, steady rhythm of a life they had built together. It was perfectly ordinary, and entirely theirs.


Rain lashed against the bay window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the kitchen was warm and smelled of roasting garlic. It was their tenth anniversary, and after a decade of grand gestures and overpriced tasting menus, Mark and Elena had mutually agreed on something entirely different: a quiet Friday night in.

"Did you remember the rosemary?" Elena asked, leaning over the kitchen island to inspect the cast-iron skillet. She nudged Mark out of the way with a gentle bump of her hip, reaching for the sea salt.

"Got it right here," Mark said, tossing a fresh sprig into the sizzling butter. He handed her a wooden spoon, trading places with her at the stove. "You baste the steaks while I decant the wine? I actually managed to find that Cabernet we had on our honeymoon in Napa."

Elena’s eyes lit up as she took the spoon, expertly tilting the heavy pan to coat the meat. "You found the 2014? Color me impressed. I thought we drank our last bottle of that five years ago."

"I have my sources," Mark grinned, pulling the cork with a soft pop. He poured the dark ruby liquid into a glass decanter, the familiar, quiet routine settling comfortably between them.

They bumped shoulders as they maneuvered through the kitchen. Elena carried the platter to the dining table, which she had already set with their wedding china and a pair of tapered beeswax candles. Mark followed closely behind with the wine and two crystal glasses.

He pulled her chair out, lingering for a moment to press a kiss to the top of her head before sitting across from her. "Happy ten years, El."

"Happy ten years," she smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. The rain continued to drum against the glass, but as they raised their glasses in the candlelight, the rest of the world quietly faded away.


Rain lashed against the windows of their Portland townhouse, making the warm glow of the kitchen feel all the more inviting. Sarah leaned against the granite counter, scrolling through a restaurant reservation app on her phone with a slight frown.

"Bistro Margot only has a nine o'clock slot left," she said, looking up at her husband. "Do we really want to eat heavy French food that late on our tenth anniversary?"

Mark chuckled, abandoning his attempt to descale their espresso machine. He wiped his hands on a dish towel and stepped over to her. "Honestly? Not really. I was just thinking how nice it would be to stay right here in our sweatpants."

Sarah's frown melted into a relieved smile. "Cancel the alert, then. Let’s do a quiet night. I can make those garlic butter scallops we had on our honeymoon, and we can finally watch that documentary."

"Perfect," Mark agreed, already moving toward the small wine rack in the dining room. "I’ll decant the 2014 Cabernet we brought back from our Napa trip. And I'll build a fire in the living room."

Sarah pulled her apron from its hook, her energy renewing. She opened the fridge, pulling out the fresh-caught scallops they had bought at the farmer's market that morning, along with a bundle of asparagus. "Can you queue up that jazz playlist we listened to in Montreal?" she called out over the sound of the running faucet.

"Way ahead of you," Mark replied, as the soft, brassy notes of a saxophone began to drift through the house. He returned to the kitchen, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and pressing a quick kiss to her shoulder. "Ten years, Sarah. No crowds, no waiting for a table. Just us."

"Just us," she echoed, turning to hand him the garlic press. "Now, start mincing. Our quiet night begins with prep work."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window, blurring the glow of the suburban streetlights outside. Mark set his wet briefcase on the floor and sighed, loosening his tie.

"You made it," Sarah said, turning away from the open refrigerator. She handed him a kitchen towel. "Was the traffic on the interstate bad?"

"Brutal," Mark replied, drying his hair. "But I didn't forget." He pulled a small, damp butcher's paper bag from his coat pocket, revealing two thick ribeye steaks.

Sarah smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Ten years. A whole decade, and you still remember the exact cut we had on our first anniversary."

"I remember everything," he said, leaning in to kiss her forehead. "Now, I know we originally talked about taking a cab downtown to that new French place..."

Sarah groaned softly, looking out at the driving rain. "Honestly? The thought of putting on heels and shouting over a crowded dining room sounds exhausting right now."

"My thoughts exactly," Mark agreed with a relieved laugh. "So, plan B?"

"Plan B," Sarah confirmed. She immediately shifted into gear, grabbing the cutting board. "I'll start heating the cast-iron skillet and get the garlic and asparagus roasting. You go change into sweatpants, feed the dog, and pull that 2014 Cabernet out of the basement."

"Deal. And after dinner?" Mark asked, already unbuttoning his damp collar.

"We pull the blankets into the living room, light the fireplace, and just be together. No phones allowed."

Mark smiled, heading toward the hallway. "Best tenth anniversary ever."

Sarah turned on the stove, listening to the comforting hiss of the burner and the steady drumming of the rain. They didn't need a grand, expensive gesture. They just needed this: their home, a good meal, and each other.


Rain lashed against the living room windows of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the kitchen was warm and smelled of roasting garlic. Mark wiped down the granite countertops, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He checked the oven timer—twenty minutes left on the herb-crusted lamb.

"I think staying in was definitely the right call," Sarah said, walking into the kitchen with two crystal wine glasses. She set them on the island and reached for the bottle of Cabernet they’d been saving since their trip to Napa. "A crowded restaurant in this weather? No thank you."

"Exactly my thought," Mark said, taking the corkscrew from her hand. He opened the wine with a soft *pop* and poured a generous measure into each glass. "Besides, ten years is a big deal. I'd rather actually hear you talk than shout over a jazz band and a crowded dining room."

Sarah smiled, taking her glass. She had changed out of her stiff office clothes into a comfortable cashmere sweater, yet she’d still taken the time to put on the pearl earrings Mark had given her on their wedding day. She walked over to the small dining table, adjusted the two tapered candles she’d placed in the center, and struck a match. The soft amber glow caught the silver streaks that had begun to appear in her dark hair over the last decade.

Mark brought a small plate of bruschetta over to the table and set it between them. "Music?" he asked, tapping the screen of his phone.

"Nothing too loud," Sarah replied, pulling out her chair. "Maybe that acoustic playlist we made for the coastal road trip last summer."

As the gentle chords of a guitar filled the room, Mark sat across from her. He raised his glass, the candlelight reflecting in his eyes. "Happy tenth anniversary, Sarah."

"Happy anniversary, Mark," she murmured, clinking her glass against his. "Here’s to the quiet moments."


Rain tapped against the kitchen window of their Portland Craftsman, but inside, the air was warm and smelled of roasting garlic. Mark leaned against the kitchen counter, expertly uncorking a bottle of 2014 Cabernet—the exact vintage from their wedding year.

"I can't believe it's been ten years," he said, pouring the dark red wine into two oversized glasses. "A whole decade of you stealing the covers."

Sarah laughed from the stove, where she was stirring a simmering pot of marinara sauce. "Hey, it's not stealing if you willingly surrender them. Besides, you're the one who leaves the coffee grounds on the counter every morning." She tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot and turned the burner down to low.

Tonight wasn’t about grand gestures or expensive downtown restaurant reservations. They had agreed weeks ago that for their tenth anniversary, they just wanted to be home.

Mark walked over, handing Sarah a glass before wrapping his free arm around her waist. He kissed her temple. "Are we still doing the movie marathon, or are we tapping out after the first one?"

"Definitely tapping out after the first one," Sarah decided, taking a sip of the rich wine and leaning into his shoulder. "We're older now. Staying up past midnight on a Tuesday requires a scheduled recovery day."

"Fair enough." Mark stepped back and opened the oven door to check on the garlic bread. The golden crust was bubbling perfectly. "Dinner in ten?"

"Make it five," Sarah said, reaching into the cupboard for their good plates—the ones they usually saved for Thanksgiving. She set them on the dining table, feeling a quiet, profound contentment. They didn't need a lavish party. The simple, familiar rhythm of their shared life was exactly what they wanted to celebrate.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the room was warm and smelled of roasting garlic. Mark leaned over the stove, stirring a simple Tuesday night risotto, while Sarah sat at the quartz island, her laptop open amidst a scattering of mail.

"So," Mark said, tapping the wooden spoon against the edge of the pot. "Ten years this Saturday. Are we absolutely sure we want to cancel the reservation at Le Bouchon?"

Sarah looked up, adjusting her glasses. "Positive. We spend all week running around the city for work. For our tenth, I just want to be here. With you. And sweatpants."

Mark grinned, his shoulders visibly relaxing. "Sweatpants anniversary it is. But we're not cooking. I draw the line at doing dishes on our milestone."

"Agreed," Sarah said, her fingers flying across the trackpad. "I’m looking at that upscale Italian place in Lincoln Park. They do a phenomenal truffle linguine for takeout. If I schedule the order now for Saturday evening, we won't even have to think about it."

"Perfect. Get the tiramisu, too," Mark replied, turning down the heat on the stove. He wiped his hands on a towel and walked over to the wine rack tucked beside the fridge. "I’ve been saving the 2014 Barolo we brought back from our honeymoon. I’ll decant it right after I pick up the food."

"Tiramisu added to cart," Sarah announced, hitting the checkout button with a satisfying click. She closed the laptop and smiled at him. "We'll light the fireplace, open the Barolo, and actually hear each other talk. No crowded dining rooms, no shouting over a jazz band."

Mark walked over and pressed a quiet kiss to the top of her head. "Sounds like the best decade celebration I could ask for."


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland home, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and decidedly relaxed. For their tenth anniversary, Sarah and Mark had agreed to skip the overpriced tasting menus downtown in favor of a quiet night in.

Mark stood at the butcher block island, carefully trimming the fat off two thick, marbled ribeye steaks. "Are we absolutely sure we don't want to dress up?" he asked, tossing a sprig of fresh rosemary into the cast-iron skillet. "I can go put on a tie. Keep the sweatpants, but add a tie."

Sarah laughed from the living room, where she was kneeling by the fireplace, coaxing a small flame from the kindling. "If you wear a tie, I have to put on heels. And I've already committed to the fuzzy socks." She brushed the ash off her hands and walked into the kitchen, pulling a bottle of their favorite Oregon Pinot Noir from the wine rack. She grabbed the corkscrew, neatly extracted the cork, and poured them each a generous glass.

"Fuzzy socks it is," Mark smiled, accepting the glass she handed him. He clinked it against hers. "Ten years. Can you believe we survived a whole decade of my experimental cooking?"

"Hey, I pull my weight," Sarah protested playfully, leaning against the counter as the butter in the skillet began to sizzle and pop. "I chopped the salad. And I curated the playlist." As if on cue, a soft, familiar jazz melody floated from the bookshelf speakers.

Mark carefully laid the steaks into the hot pan, the rich, savory aroma immediately filling the room. He turned to her, wiping his hands on his apron. "Honestly, this beats any crowded restaurant. Just us."

Sarah stepped closer, resting her head against his shoulder as the fire crackled in the next room. "Happy anniversary, Mark."


"Ten years," Mark said, leaning against the granite kitchen island. He scrolled through the reservation app on his phone, frowning. "Bistro Valerius has a table at eight, but it’s downtown. Traffic on a Friday evening will be brutal."

Sarah paused her chopping, wiping her hands on a striped dish towel. Outside their Chicago-area home, a crisp autumn wind rattled the bay window. "Honestly? The thought of putting on heels, paying for parking, and shouting over a crowded dining room sounds exhausting. What if we just stay here?"

Mark set his phone face-down on the counter, visibly relieved. "Are you sure? It's a major milestone. The aluminum anniversary... or is it tin?"

"Tin," Sarah laughed, leaning across the counter. "And I'm completely sure. Let's make it a deliberately upscale night in. We can finally open that bottle of Cabernet we brought back from Napa five years ago."

Mark’s eyes lit up. He walked over, opened the kitchen desk drawer, and pulled out a notepad. "Okay, if we're staying in, I'm taking charge of the main course. I’ll make that herb-crusted lamb rack. You always complain I don't make it enough."

"Deal," Sarah agreed, pointing a wooden spoon at him playfully. "And I will handle the sides. Garlic mashed potatoes and that molten chocolate cake we tried to perfect last winter."

"I'll run to the specialty grocer on my lunch break


Rain lashed against the kitchen window, but inside, the house was a warm sanctuary of low lights and soft jazz. Mark leaned over the kitchen island, meticulously rubbing cracked black pepper and coarse sea salt into two thick ribeye steaks.

"Are you sure you don't mind staying in?" Sarah asked, expertly working a corkscrew into a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon they had saved specifically for tonight. "I know we usually do the city for the big ones."

"Sarah, it’s our tenth anniversary," Mark said, looking up with a warm smile. "If I have to shout over a crowded restaurant table to tell you I love you, I’m going to feel every bit of my forty-two years."

She laughed, the cork popping with a satisfying *thwack*. She poured the dark wine into their good crystal glasses—the ones they hadn't touched since Thanksgiving. Handing him a glass, she leaned against the counter beside him. "To a decade," she toasted, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

"To a decade," Mark echoed, clinking his glass against hers before taking a sip. "Steaks are ready for the cast iron. Did you cue up the movie?"

"Not yet," Sarah said, setting her glass down to pull up a playlist on the living room smart speaker. "I thought we could eat by the fire first. I already tossed the asparagus in olive oil and set out the good plates."

Mark wiped his hands on a dish towel and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. The smell of rain, red wine, and garlic hung comfortably in the air. They didn't need a frantic night in downtown Chicago to prove anything. Here, in the quiet life they had built together, everything they wanted was already within reach.


The evening sun slanted through the kitchen blinds of their Chicago townhouse, casting long shadows across the butcher-block counter. Sarah scraped diced onions into the sizzling cast-iron skillet, the familiar aroma filling the room. At the kitchen island, David closed his laptop with a quiet snap.

"So, next Saturday," David said, leaning forward on his elbows. "Ten years. Are we really sure we're not doing the big downtown steakhouse?"

Sarah wiped her hands on a dish towel and turned to face him. "Honestly? The thought of yelling over a crowded dining room to hear each other sounds exhausting. I'm going to cancel the reservation."

David smiled, a genuine expression of relief that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Good. Because I was looking at weekend flights to Napa, and even the packing felt like too much work."

"Let’s just stay right here," Sarah said, stepping over to the island and tapping the smooth wood surface. "We can still make it special. I'll pick up those bone-in ribeyes from the local butcher down the street. The dry-aged ones."

"If you handle the steaks, I’ll make my truffle risotto," David offered, already mentally inventorying their pantry. "And I’ll finally open that bottle of Barolo we brought back from our honeymoon. It’s been gathering dust in the basement for exactly a decade."

Sarah leaned down and kissed his cheek. "Perfect. Steaks, risotto, the Barolo. No phones, no work emails. Just us, the fireplace, and maybe that terrible jazz record you love."

"Miles Davis is a genius, not terrible," David protested, though he reached out to squeeze her hand fondly.

"It's a date," she laughed, returning to the stove. As the onions caramelized, a deep, comfortable silence settled over the kitchen. Ten years of marriage hadn't made them crave fireworks; it had simply taught them the quiet luxury of each other's undivided attention.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago townhouse, but inside, the air was warm and smelled of roasting garlic. It was their tenth anniversary, a milestone that usually demanded a crowded steakhouse and exorbitant prices. Instead, Elena and Mark had unanimously opted for bare feet and their own dining room.

Elena leaned over the marble island, expertly dicing a shallot. "I still can't believe we actually canceled the reservation at Chez Leon," she said, though a relaxed smile tugged at her lips. "Are we officially boring?"

"If preferring a good bottle of Pinot in our own home over shouting across a crowded restaurant makes us boring, then I embrace it," Mark replied. He drove a corkscrew into the wine, the soft *pop* echoing over the jazz playlist humming from the corner speaker. He poured two glasses, sliding one across the counter to her.

She set her knife down and took a sip, leaning back against the cabinets. "Ten years. A whole decade."

"And we haven't killed each other yet," Mark joked, walking over to the oven to check on the rosemary chicken. He grabbed a pair of oven mitts. "Can you get the plates? The good ones, at least. We should pretend we have some class."

Elena laughed, opening the upper cabinet to retrieve the wedding china they hadn't touched since Thanksgiving. She carried them to the small wooden table by the window, pausing to light the two taper candles Mark had set out earlier. The flickering glow reflected off the rain-streaked glass.

Mark brought the roasting pan over, the savory steam rising between them. He pulled out her chair, waiting for her to sit before taking his own seat. Raising his glass, his eyes met hers, soft and sincere.

"To ten years," Mark said gently.

"To us," Elena replied, clinking her glass against his, perfectly content in the quiet life they had built together.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Seattle townhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and steeped in the rich scent of roasting garlic. Mark twisted the corkscrew into a bottle of Cabernet, the satisfying pop cutting through the soft jazz playing from the smart speaker.

"I still can't believe we managed to track down the exact same vintage from our wedding," Mark said, carefully pouring the dark ruby liquid into two glasses.

At the island, Elena expertly diced a handful of fresh basil, sweeping it into a simmering pot of marinara. She wiped her hands on her apron and accepted the glass Mark offered. "Ten years," she said, leaning against the marble counter to meet his eyes. "A whole decade. And to think, my mother swore we’d be completely bored of each other by year five."

Mark chuckled, stepping closer to wrap a free arm around her waist. "Are you absolutely sure you don't mind skipping the fancy tasting menu downtown? We still have time to put on real clothes and brave the I-5 traffic."

"Not a chance," Elena laughed, turning back to stir the sauce. "I spent all week dealing with corporate clients. The only thing I want tonight is this kitchen, my favorite sweatpants, and you making your famous handmade pasta."

Mark kissed the top of her head, then moved to the flour-dusted cutting board to begin rolling out the dough. They fell into an easy, synchronized rhythm—the kind of seamless partnership that only a decade of marriage could forge. Elena tasted the sauce, adjusted the salt, and dimmed the overhead lights while Mark dropped the fresh fettuccine into the boiling water.

When the food was finally plated, they sat together at the small wooden breakfast nook. Mark raised his glass. "To ten years," he said softly.

"And to staying in," Elena smiled, clinking her glass against his.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Chicago rowhouse, but inside, the air was warm and smelled heavily of garlic and roasting thyme. Mark stood at the stove, gently stirring a bubbling pot of mushroom risotto. Across the granite island, Elena wrestled with the cork of a 2014 Cabernet, a bottle they had been saving for exactly this occasion.

"I'm so glad we cancelled the reservation downtown," Elena said, finally easing the cork out with a soft pop. She poured two generous glasses, sliding one across the counter toward her husband. "Ten years is a big deal, but I really didn't want to spend our anniversary yelling over the din of a crowded dining room."

Mark accepted the glass, taking a sip before adjusting the heat beneath the skillet. "Agreed. Besides, the scallops are searing perfectly, and the dress code in our house is strictly sweatpants." He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way she had loved since college. "Happy anniversary, El."

"Happy anniversary," she smiled back, lifting her glass to clink against his.

Elena picked up a pair of taper candles and headed toward the small dining alcove. She swapped the everyday placemats for the thick linen ones they’d bought on their honeymoon in Maine, smoothing out the fabric with careful hands. Meanwhile, Mark plated the food, carefully arranging the golden-brown scallops over beds of creamy rice and garnishing them with fresh parsley.

He brought the warm plates to the table just as Elena struck a match, the twin flames throwing a soft, flickering glow over the room. There were no grand speeches or extravagant surprises tonight—just a quiet, deliberate celebration of a decade spent building a life together, one shared dinner at a time.


Mark pulled the seasoned steaks from the refrigerator, letting them rest on the granite counter. He glanced at the oven clock—6:15 PM. "Are you sure we shouldn’t have at least ordered takeout from that fancy Italian place downtown?" he called out.

Sarah walked into the kitchen, carrying two crystal wine glasses and a dusty bottle of their favorite Oregon Pinot Noir. She set them down next to the cutting board and bumped her hip playfully against his. "Absolutely sure," she said, working the corkscrew into the cork. "A decade of marriage means we no longer have to pretend we enjoy shouting over the noise of a crowded restaurant."

"Ten years," Mark mused, shaking his head. He reached for the heavy cast-iron skillet, turning the burner on medium-high. "I remember when we thought we’d be spending this one in Paris."

"Paris will still be there for year fifteen," Sarah replied. She poured the dark red wine, handing him a glass. "Besides, Paris doesn't have our worn-out corduroy sofa, or the fire pit you built in the backyard."

Mark took a sip, smiling over the rim. "Good point. Speaking of the fire pit, I chopped some oak this afternoon. We can take dessert out there if the wind stays down."

"Perfect. I picked up those dark chocolate truffles you love from the bakery on Main Street," Sarah said. She reached past him to grab the salad bowl, tossing the greens with a light vinaigrette she'd mixed earlier. "Steaks, wine, a fire, and absolutely nowhere to be."

Mark laid the meat gently into the smoking skillet, a satisfying sizzle filling the cozy kitchen. He wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her close for a brief, warm kiss. "Happy anniversary, Sarah."

"Happy anniversary," she murmured back, grabbing a pair of tongs. "Now, don't burn my dinner."


Sarah leaned over the granite kitchen island, tracing the spine of a worn Italian cookbook. Outside their Seattle townhouse, a steady October drizzle blurred the streetlights, making the warm glow of the kitchen feel entirely isolated from the rest of the world.

"We could attempt the osso buco," she suggested, looking up as David opened the refrigerator.

David pulled out a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio and set it on the counter, reaching for the corkscrew. "For our tenth? I thought we agreed no culinary stress this year. Remember the great soufflé disaster of our fifth?"

Sarah laughed, closing the book. "Fair point. But it’s a decade, Dave. It feels like we should do something a little more deliberate than our usual Friday night takeout."

"Deliberate doesn't have to mean complicated," David said, expertly popping the cork and pouring two glasses. He slid one across the island to her. "What if we go to Pike Place tomorrow morning, get a couple of fresh king salmon fillets, and grill them here? I’ll make that lemon-dill risotto."

Sarah took a sip, letting the crisp wine settle her thoughts. She pictured the living room, the two of them in comfortable clothes instead of stiff formal wear. "Salmon and risotto," she mused. "We open the bottle of champagne your parents sent us, light the fireplace, and finally crack open that Hitchcock box set."

"No reservations. No crowded downtown dining rooms trying to shout over a jazz band," David added, leaning against the counter to face her.

"Just us." Sarah smiled, reaching out to clink her glass against his. "It sounds perfect. Ten years of surviving each other definitely earns us a quiet night by the fire."

"I'll start the grocery list," David said, pulling a notepad from the drawer. "You pick the first movie."


Mark chopped garlic on the butcher block while Sarah leaned against the kitchen counter, scrolling aimlessly through restaurant reviews on her phone. Outside, a heavy Seattle rain drummed against the windowpane.

"Tenth anniversary," Sarah mused, looking up from the glowing screen. "We should probably do the tasting menu at Le Petit Chien. It’s a milestone. It's what people do."

Mark scraped the minced garlic into a sizzling skillet. "Do you actually want a six-course meal in a loud, crowded dining room, though?" he asked, wiping his hands on a striped dish towel.

Sarah smiled, placing her phone face-down on the granite. "Not really. I'd much rather wear my sweatpants."

"Exactly," Mark agreed, turning the stove down to a gentle simmer. "So let's just stay in. We can try making that wild mushroom risotto we spectacularly ruined on our first anniversary."

"Only this time, we won't burn the shallots," Sarah said, stepping forward to take over stirring the sauce he had started. "I’ll stop by the local butcher on my way home tomorrow and get two of those overpriced dry-aged ribeyes. And we can finally open the bottle of Cabernet we brought back from our honeymoon in Napa."

Mark walked over to the wine rack in the dining room and pulled out a dark green bottle to inspect the label. "2014. It's definitely ready."

"After dinner," Sarah added, "we can build a fire and put on that terrible jazz record we found at the flea market."

Mark walked back and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder as she stirred. "Risotto, Napa Cab, and terrible jazz," he murmured. "Sounds like the perfect decade."

Sarah leaned back into his warmth. She didn't need a reservation. A quiet night right here was exactly what ten years of marriage was supposed to feel like.


Rain lashed against the kitchen window of their Portland townhouse, but inside, the atmosphere was warm and filled with the rich scent of roasting garlic. Sarah adjusted the temperature on the oven, wiping her hands on a striped apron.

"Ten years," she said, leaning back against the granite counter. "Can you believe we survived a whole decade?"

Mark chuckled from the adjacent dining room, where he was carefully folding linen napkins beside their good china. He walked into the kitchen, holding up two bottles of red wine. "It was touch and go during that IKEA bedroom assembly back in 2016, but yes. Pinot or Cabernet?"

"Cabernet," Sarah decided, reaching into the overhead cupboard for two wide-bowled glasses. "Honestly, I’m so glad we canceled the dinner reservation downtown. Navigating traffic in this weather sounds exhausting."

Mark expertly uncorked the bottle, the satisfying *pop* echoing in the cozy space. "Me too. Plus, I’d much rather eat your mushroom risotto in my sweatpants than pay two hundred dollars just to wear a stiff collar." He poured the dark ruby liquid, stepping forward to hand a glass to his wife.

Sarah took a sip, her shoulders dropping as the tension of the long workweek finally melted away. She set her glass down, walked over to the smart speaker on the island, and tapped her phone screen, filling the room with the soft, soulful strumming of Leon Bridges.

"Good choice," Mark murmured. He set his own glass down and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a slow, swaying embrace. "Happy anniversary, Sarah."

"Happy anniversary, Mark." She rested her head against his chest. The oven timer beeped, but neither of them made a move to break the hug. They had nowhere else to be.


Rain drummed softly against the kitchen window of their Columbus, Ohio townhouse, blurring the amber glow of the streetlights outside. It was a fitting, cozy backdrop for their tenth wedding anniversary.

Sarah leaned over the granite island, inspecting the array of artisanal cheeses and cured meats she had just unpacked from the local deli. "I think the truffle gouda was a good call," she said, arranging the wedges onto a slate board with practiced care. "Are you absolutely sure we aren't copping out by canceling our reservations at that French place downtown?"

Mark closed the refrigerator door, holding a chilled bottle of the Pinot Noir they had bought during a trip to the Willamette Valley. He walked over, setting the bottle down before wrapping an arm around her waist. "Not a chance. Ten years means we get to do exactly what we want. And what I want is to eat ridiculous amounts of cheese in my sweatpants with my wife."

Sarah laughed, leaning into his shoulder. "Sweatpants on a milestone anniversary? You're a true romantic, Mark."

"I have my moments," he smiled, reaching into the drawer for the corkscrew. "Besides, I already queued up our wedding video in the living room. I even managed to find that awful playlist your brother made for the reception."

Sarah groaned playfully, taking two crystal wine glasses down from the upper cabinet. "Oh no, not the nineties disco megamix."

"The very same," Mark said, expertly popping the cork. He poured a generous measure into both glasses, handing one to her.

She took the glass, her eyes catching his over the rim. They clinked them together, the crisp sound ringing through the quiet kitchen.

"Happy ten years, Sarah."

"Happy ten years," she replied, picking up the cheese board. "Now, let's go brave the disco."