Keith’s kitchen was small, warm, and alive with the scent of home—something between roasted coffee beans and old wood polished with lemon oil. Afternoon light poured in through the window over the sink, streaking across the counter like golden ribbons. Mya sat at the table, hands folded around a mug she hadn’t touched, watching him move about the room with an ease that was disarmingly intimate.
It had been years since she’d seen a man cook without expecting an audience, without turning it into theater. Damon’s meals had been prepared by staff in white gloves; the kitchen was never a place she’d been allowed to belong. Here, Keith hummed softly under his breath, sleeves rolled up, cutting vegetables with the casual grace of someone who enjoyed the process.
He turned toward her with a smal
