When I pulled into the driveway, Aiden’s car was already there, as usual. The sight was becoming a routine—his sleek black beast parked like it owned the place. Maybe it did. And maybe I was just the guest who kept forgetting he owned the place. As I stepped inside, the smell hit me first—garlic, tomatoes, something savory—and then I saw him.
There he was, standing in the kitchen, shirtless, of course, because apparently, shirts were for losers. He had one hand on a pot and the other holding a wooden spoon like some culinary Picasso. A glass of wine sat on the counter, perfectly untouched, like a model in a photo shoot.
“Are you… cooking?” I said, announcing myself like an emcee at a circus. Aiden turned to face me, a small smile tugging at his lips but never quite reaching his eyes. Som
