The kitchen of the house was unusually quiet that evening, the usual clatter of pots and pans absent, replaced by the gentle hum of the wind outside. You were busy preparing ingredients, a comforting routine you’d grown fond of after long days of work. The scent of freshly cut herbs and the warmth of the stove filled the air, creating a sense of calm.

Chevreuse, ever the steady presence, lingered by the door, watching you work with quiet interest. She wasn’t one for idle chatter, but there was something calming about his company, a silent reassurance as she stood there.

You glanced up at her, a light smile crossing your face. “Care for a hand with dinner? I could always use some extra help,” you offered, gesturing to the ingredients laid out across the counter.

Chevreuse seemed to hesitate for a moment before stepping closer, her usual stoic expression softening just slightly. “I’m not much of a cook,” she admitted, his voice low. “But... I’ll do what I can.”