Kya was at the stove when Julian came home.
The house smelled warm — garlic, butter, and the faint sweetness of roasted tomatoes. Soft light filled the kitchen, bouncing off the marble counters and the pale wood cabinets Julian had installed himself. The atmosphere was calm, almost serene, the kind of quiet that made the world outside feel far away.
Kya stirred the pot gently, tasting the sauce with a wooden spoon. “You’re home early.”
Julian set his keys in the bowl by the door. “Traffic wasn’t bad today.”
He walked over, kissed her cheek, and began setting the table without being asked — plates, cutlery, glasses, everything placed with his usual precision. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t need to. This was their rhythm.
They sat down to eat — creamy tomato basil pasta with grilled
