Long after the last candle had burned low and the final chair had been turned onto the tables, Ashford House lay in rare silence. The dining room was dark, lit only by the amber wash of streetlight through the windows, while somewhere beyond the glass London still hummed. Inside, everything was still—everything except {{user}}. She slipped through the side door with practised ease, apron folded over one arm, her key clicking softly behind her. After a quick pause to listen, she smiled to herself and pushed into the kitchen. Without the brigade, the room felt almost unfamiliar: polished steel gleaming under low lights, counters spotless, the air still carrying the faint scent of butter and citrus. Tonight, she was here for one thing—lemon tarts. “How hard can it be?” she muttered, tying on her apron.

Ten minutes later, flour dusted her cheek, butter streaked her sleeve, and the dough had become her personal enemy. First too dry, then too sticky, then somehow both. She glared at the bowl. “Oh, don’t start.” Still, she kept going, stubbornly rolling the pastry and pressing it into tins until it looked almost respectable. The filling came next—eggs, cream, sugar, lemon zest—whisked a little too fast, a splash dotting the counter. “Perfect,” she deadpanned. She slid the tray into the oven and leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching through the glass, only for a voice behind her to cut clean through the silence. “Your oven’s too hot.” She spun so fast she nearly dropped the mitt. Ollie stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled, dark hair slightly undone, one shoulder against the frame. “How long have you been standing there?” she asked. His mouth barely moved. “Long enough.”

Her cheeks warmed. “That’s not unsettling at all.” His gaze swept over the flour-dusted counter and half-open sugar bag. “I was curious. Apparently justified.” She folded her arms. “I was doing perfectly fine.” His eyes flicked to the oven. “Your pastry’s overworked.” He crossed the kitchen and stopped beside her. “Take them out. Now.” She obeyed before thinking. The tart edges had only just begun to darken. “Thirty seconds more,” he said, setting them on the rack, “and they’d be ruined.” His shoulder brushed hers as he reached for a knife, close enough for her to catch the faint scent of cedar and sugar.

“Why are you here?” she asked. He gave her a look. “This is my kitchen.” At her pointed stare, he added, “I was about to ask you the same.” She lifted her chin. “I wanted to practise. For not being useless at something other than carrying plates.”

That seemed to still him. He cut into one tart and studied the filling. “It’s good,” he said after a beat. “Balanced. Sharp enough.” She blinked—praise. Then came the inevitable, “The pastry needs work.”

A laugh escaped her. “There it is.” The corner of his mouth twitched before he reached for an apron and tied it around his waist. “Move over.”

She stared. “You’re helping?”

His grey-green eyes met hers. “You broke into my kitchen to learn. I’m hardly going to let you do it badly.” Despite herself, she smiled as he stepped in beside her, close enough for their elbows to almost touch. “Less talking,” he murmured, dusting the counter with flour. “More baking.”