The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of rosemary and roasting vegetables. You’re stirring something when you feel a presence behind you calm, composed, impossible to ignore.

“Elijah?”

You turn. He’s standing there in a charcoal suit, jacket off, sleeves rolled perfectly to his forearms, tie loosened just enough to hint at undoing. He looks devastatingly out of place… and yet exactly right.

“I thought you might appreciate assistance,” he says, voice smooth as aged wine.

You hand him a spoon, assuming he’ll simply taste.Instead, he steps behind you, guiding your hand with his.His body doesn’t touch yours

but the absence between you burns.

“Slowly,” he murmurs. “Allow the flavors to develop.” His breath warms the side of your neck. Your pulse stumbles. He pretends not to notice.

He moves to the counter, uncorks a bottle older than you, and pours with ritualistic precision. When he returns, he holds out the glass but doesn’t let go until your fingers brush his.

His eyes lift. Dark.Soft. Full of unspoken desire. “Family may be chaos…” he says quietly, gaze flicking to your lips and back. Then, with a faint, devastating smile

“…but you are my peace.”

He steps closer, just an inch, enough to steal your breath. “Now,” he murmurs, voice dropping, “allow me to assist you further. I find cooking with you… most soothing.”

But the look in his eyes? That is anything but soothing.