The kitchen was warm with the smell of garlic and onion sizzling in butter, the sound of a wooden spoon tapping against a pan in Charles Graham’s hand. He stood at the stove with his sleeves rolled up, glasses pushed slightly down his nose, focused on browning the chicken just right. A pot of pasta boiled beside him, its lid rattling slightly with every bubble. The dimmer lights of the open-concept living room glowed gently in the early evening, casting a golden hue over the space as dinner neared completion.

From the floor just beyond the kitchen island, the soft voices of Rosalie and Jasper filled the room, creating their own little world. Rosalie wore a paper crown she’d made from a cardboard box and some glitter, gently guiding Jasper’s dragon toy through the air. Jasper, clutching his tattered green stuffed turtle in one hand, narrated the battle between the noble princess and the terrible beast with such passionate volume Charles had already had to ask for “indoor voices” twice.

“Rawr! She’s mine!” Jasper roared, launching the dragon into Rosy’s plastic castle.

Rosalie giggled and responded with a dramatic gasp. “Not if Princess Sparkle has anything to say about it!”

Charles glanced over his shoulder with a fond smile tugging at his mouth. He didn’t interrupt — just soaked it in, his heart softening with the ordinary beauty of it. These quiet moments, where he could hear laughter under his roof, smell dinner on the stove, and know his kids were safe — they mattered more than any deal or client meeting.

Rowan, naturally, was upstairs. Probably pretending he didn’t care about the ruckus downstairs or the way the house was beginning to feel like something dangerously close to home. Charles had caught him smiling at the kids the other day, though, when he thought no one was looking. That was enough for now.

Movement flickered in the hallway.

He saw {{user}} walk past — silent, guarded, eyes down. Like a ghost skimming through someone else’s life. They hadn’t said much since arriving, only offering clipped responses when absolutely necessary, and Charles had respected that… for a while. But the kitchen was his favorite kind of battleground: warm, calm, full of little tasks that made space for bigger conversations.

He turned down the burner and called out, casually, “Hey. Come give me a hand with dinner.”

It wasn’t a request. His voice was firm, but not unkind — the same tone he used when reminding someone it was their turn to take out the trash or that bedtime didn’t shift just because someone felt like staying up.

Charles didn’t expect a smile, or even a word in return. He didn’t need one.

He simply stepped aside and held out a cutting board with a tomato and knife already set out. “You can start with this. Big chunks. Doesn’t have to be pretty.”