Roman and Christian exchange looks but retreat toward the dining room, their footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors. Through the doorway, I can see the long table already set with the china I never use, crystal glasses catching the dimming afternoon light from the windows.
I cross to Harper, my shoes quiet on the kitchen tile.
"You okay?" I ask quietly.
"I'm great. This is—" She looks around my kitchen, at the cameras, at the controlled chaos of production. A timer beeps somewhere. One of the crew members adjusts a light, and the room brightens. "This is amazing, Victor. Thank you for letting us film here."
"It's your episode. You should film where you're comfortable."
"I'm comfortable here." She says it simply, like it's obvious, and I can't help but grin.
"Good. What do you need?"
"Help getting this monster into the oven. Your primary oven, not the fancy one the crew is using for filming. This is the backup turkey in case something goes wrong with the show bird."
"Always prepared."
"I'm terrified of failure. It's a whole thing."
We maneuver the turkey into the oven together—the blast of heat when I open the door immediately warming my face, the smell of roasting meat and aromatics intensifying.
I'm acutely aware of how domestic this is, how natural it feels to move around my kitchen with her, anticipating her needs, falling into an easy rhythm.
The way her hip bumps mine as we adjust the rack.
The warmth of her body next to mine in the heat of the kitchen.
How much it thrills me, sending goosebumps along the surface of my skin despite the temperature.
"Victor?" Harper's voice pulls me back. "You're doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where you go all cold and distant and I can see you retreating into Ice Prince mode."
"I hardly think?—“
"You are. What's on your mind?”
Before I can answer, the doorbell rings—a soft chime that echoes through the penthouse.
"That'll be Babushka," I mutter. "She texted that she was on her way."
"Your grandmother is coming?" Harper's eyes widen, hazel going almost gold in the kitchen lights. "Victor, you didn't tell me?—"
"I invited her last week. I thought—" I stop. "I thought you'd want to see her again. After the dinner at her place."
Harper's expression softens. "I did. I do. I'm just—I'm not exactly dressed for grandmother visits."
She gestures down at herself—the oversized hoodie, the bare feet, the flour smudge on her cheek that I desperately want to wipe away.
She looks perfect.
"You look—" Unbelievably edible, I want to say. "Great."
"I look like I raided your closet."
"You did raid my closet."
