Sunday arrived quietly. No events, no calendar obligations, no room to perform for. Just the apartment and the morning light and Roman in the kitchen when I came out at seven making eggs, which I hadn't seen him do before.
I stopped in the doorway.
"You cook," I said.
"Occasionally." He didn't look up. "When I don't want to wake Dora."
"It's seven AM on a Sunday. Dora's been up since five-thirty."
"Then I'm doing it because I wanted to." He looked up. "Sit down."
I sat at the counter and watched him move through the kitchen with the same efficiency he brought to everything — no wasted motion, no performance of domesticity. Just a man making eggs because he'd decided to.
It was unbearably attractive.
I looked at the counter.
He set a plate in front of me and came around to sit besi
