The kitchen was quiet except for the gentle clatter of knives against the cutting board and the soft simmer of sauce on the stove. The warm glow of the evening sun spilled through the window, painting the room in shades of gold.

Nash stood beside you, sleeves rolled up, carefully chopping herbs with a precision that felt almost reverent. You watched him for a moment, his profile serene, his golden-hazel eyes focused, his lips set in a faint, thoughtful curve.

“How old are you?” you asked suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence.

He paused, his knife hovering mid-air, and turned to look at you. A glint of mischief sparkled in his gaze, but his voice was soft when he spoke.

“A quarter of an hour,” he said, his lips curving into a tender smile. “Because these fifteen minutes with you have felt like a lifetime worth living.”

Your breath caught. The sincerity in his words wrapped around you like the warmth of the kitchen, and for a moment, the world outside your new home ceased to exist.