“That looks… good,” he says, though his eyes never leave the knife.
I stop chopping.
“I don’t think that’s what you were going to say,” I tell him gently. “And don’t worry about the knife.”
His shoulders tense.
“I won’t hurt you.” I give him a reassuring smile. “I took a cooking class.”
He nods, but the doubt lingers as I resume chopping.
“My mom loved to cook,” I say. “It’s one of the only things she never let the staff do.”
“That’s sweet,” he says. “She sounds amazing.”
“Yes, she was.”
His brow furrows. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
I nod. “Me, too. I miss her a lot.” I finish chopping the onion. “The house feels empty without her.” At Drew’s curious look, I say, “I still live at home. My dad didn’thandle her death well. And now... well, he’s improved. But he travels a lot. So I stay there.”
I move on to the potatoes, slicing them thin and arranging them on a baking tray. I scatter bits of onion and seasoning over them, then slide the tray into the oven.
Next, I pull out the vegetables and rinse them off. Carrots. Broccoli. Cauliflower.
“Oh,” Drew says. “Sebastian hates broccoli.”
I smile at him over my shoulder. “He used to. Then I started mixing it with carrots and cauliflower. A little seasoning.” I glance at him. “He loves it now.”
“Stockholm syndrome,” Drew mutters.
“Exposure therapy,” I correct.
Drew snorts despite himself. “That tracks.”
I start chopping the carrots, then the broccoli, then the cauliflower, moving with practiced ease.
We continue chatting while I work. The conversation moves to Drew’s job, his marriage ending, and how he hated living in the city, but did it for her. He relaxes without noticing he’s doing it—leaning against the counter, laughing softly when I tease him about his reflexes.
By the time the front door opens, we’re laughing like old friends.
Sebastian steps inside, jacket slung over his shoulder, taking in the scene in a single, assessing glance. His expression stays neutral.
He crosses to the refrigerator and pulls out a bottle of water. He twists the cap slowly, like he’s giving himself an extra second to recalibrate.
“Smells good,” he says, nodding at the oven.
“Thank you,” I reply, keeping my tone light as I turn the steak in the pan.
He nods once, like this information has been filedaway, then leans back against the counter—arms folded, posture contained.
Drew clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. It smells great.”
Sebastian glances at him. “You hungry?”
“Starving,” Drew says quickly.
“Good.” Sebastian takes another sip of water. His gaze flicks back to me—brief, measured. “Thanks for cooking.”
