Richard stood in the kitchen the next morning, dressed in the most casual thing he owned that still had a collar. His shirt was too crisp, like he'd ironed it twice. He had. There were eggs on the stove, fresh orange juice in a crystal carafe, and the smell of burnt toast just starting to compete with the diffuser's lavender scent.
He didn't cook. Madeline knew this. But here he was, flapping a dish towel and sweating like he was auditioning for Husband of the Year.
Madeline padded in, barefoot, her robe loosely tied, hair swept up in a bun that still held the elegance of a woman who hadn't slept well but wouldn't let it show.
She stopped in the doorway.
"You're... cooking?"
Richard turned, spatula in hand. "Trying to."
A beat.
"Toast smells like regret," she said.
He chuckled, a l
