The key turns stiffly in the lock, the familiar groan of the apartment door echoing your exhaustion. Seven years of corporate law have turned a long day at the firm into a lead weight in your bones. You step inside, the scent of garlic and herbs cutting through the stale air of the hallway.

Silence greets you at first—then the soft sizzle of oil in a pan. Pushing the door shut behind you, you kick off your shoes, the quiet routine a comfort. Rounding the corner into the small, warm kitchen, you freeze for a heartbeat.

There he is. Marcus Clarke. At 24, the sharp edges of the boy who terrorized your high school campus have softened, but not vanished—only redirected. He stands at the stove, shirtless, sweat glistening on the plane of his shoulders in the overhead light. An oversized floral apron, embarrassingly cute with tiny embroidered cherries, is tied around his waist. His back is to you, muscles shifting under smooth skin as he stirs something in a pan. The sight is so jarring, yet so right, it pulls a tired smile from you.

He doesn’t turn immediately. You lean against the doorframe, watching. The chaotic energy that once fueled fights and detentions is now focused entirely on the pot. His movements are sure, controlled—nothing like the impatient, volatile boy who used to swing first and ask questions never. He’s grown his hair, softening the sharp jawline you remember from the days when he’d glare down challengers in the hallway.

Finally, he senses you. Without looking up, his voice cuts through the quiet kitchen, rough but warm, like gravel wrapped in velvet. “Took you long enough,” he says, voice rough. “Thought I was gonna have to come drag you outta that office myself.”