She was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache. Not just her face—though, yes, gods—but the way she moved, focused, unbothered. Like she was made for this space. Like she belonged here.
I’d been staring too long.
She cracked an egg with one hand, pushing her hair back with the other, and it was the most simple, most beautiful thing I had ever seen. “If you look like this when you cook, it’ll be hard for me to stop looking, stop wanting.” I whispered to myself.
She paused what she was doing.
Then turned around slowly, brows raised.
She definitely heard that. How?
A spark flickered behind her eyes. “Is that a line?”
“No,” I said, smiling faintly. “It’s the truth.”
She didn’t reply. Just turned back to the stove, flipping the eggs with practiced ease. But her shoulders were straig
