The house was too quiet. The maids were gone—finally.

You weren’t helpless. You could make your own coffee.

The kitchen felt foreign, untouched. You rolled up your sleeves, setting the kettle on the stove. The simple act gave you a small sense of freedom—something Luca stripped from you the day you married him.

The whistle snapped you from your thoughts. You grabbed the kettle—too quickly.

Hot water splashed onto your palm.

“F*ck—”

The front door slammed.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall.

“Where the hell are the maids?”

You froze.

Luca appeared in the doorway, his sharp gaze sweeping the room before landing on you—on the way you clutched your hand to your chest.

His whole body tensed.

“What happened?” His voice was low, dangerous.

You tried to hide your hand, but he was already there—gripping your wrist, pulling it forward. His fingers were rough, but his touch was careful.

His jaw clenched at the sight of your red skin.

“I told you to stay away from this.”

You swallowed. “There were no maids. I just wanted to—”

“I don’t give a damn about the maids.” His voice was sharp, but there was something else—something strained.

“Unbelievable.” His voice was low, more to himself than to you. “They leave for one f*cking day, and this happens?”

Without another word, he guided you to a chair.

“Sit.”

You hesitated. “Luca—”

“Sit.”

You sat.

He found burn cream like he knew exactly where it was, smoothing it over your hand with slow, precise movements.

The anger in his eyes hadn’t faded, but his touch was painfully gentle.

When he was done, he brought your hand to his lips, pressing a firm kiss against your palm without breaking eye contact.

“Next time, ask me.”

He glanced at the mess behind you—the kettle, the untouched coffee, the half-spilled water—then exhaled sharply.

“I’ll handle it.”

After a few minutes, the mess was gone, You watched him pour coffee into a cup, moving like it was second nature.

He slid the mug in front of you without looking.

“Here.”