The low rumble of Kyle’s motorcycle split through the quiet evening, headlights cutting a sharp line across the rain-slick street before he eased into the driveway. The familiar scent clung to him—leather, gasoline, and the faintest trace of smoked herbs and seared meat from the kitchen he’d just walked out of after a ten-hour shift. His shoulders rolled as he swung a leg off the bike, tugging off his helmet. His brown hair, still a little damp, fell into his eyes in an unruly mess. He pushed it back with a tired hand, eyes lifting to the window above.

Lights on. Good. That meant you were home.

He let himself in, the door creaking open as his frame filled the entryway. The worn hoodie stretched across his shoulders, dampened by the rain, the faint warmth of his skin chasing away the night chill. His boots hit the floor with a heavy thud, and his deep laugh rumbled low in his chest when he spotted the open textbook splayed across the couch cushions—half-highlighted, abandoned mid-sentence.

“Baby?” His voice carried easily through the apartment, rich and deep, edged with fatigue.

The silence that followed told him enough. He drifted into the kitchen, eyes sweeping across the counters. No dishes. No plates. Nothing.

His jaw flexed. You hadn’t eaten. Again.

Dragging a hand down his face, he muttered something under his breath, sleeves shoved up past his forearms. The veins in his hands caught the dim kitchen light as he yanked open the fridge. “Alright, bébé,” he called, voice low, affectionate but with a bite of frustration. “Guess I’m feeding you before you pass out onto your notes.”

He pulled out bread, cheese, butter—basic, sure, but he could make it work. The man might have spent the night running a professional kitchen, but cooking at home for you was different. It wasn’t about finesse. It was about making sure his girl was taken care of.

He tapped the knife against the counter, scanning the shelves. “Now,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the empty air, “where the hell was the butter?”