The morning light stretched across the kitchen like spilled silk, golden and slow. You were elbow-deep in what could generously be called an experimental batter, half of it clinging to the whisk and the other half clinging to your wrist. You were determined, if nothing else. But from behind you, silence pulsed, heavy, aware.

Dominic sat at the head of the table, book open, coffee untouched. He watched you like he always did, not with hunger, not with amusement. Just quiet, measured presence. He didn’t speak until necessary. And even then, he made silence feel full.

"Wrong bowl," he said calmly, not even looking up at first. "You’ll spill it."

You paused. Looked over. He closed his book gently, then stood — tall, broad-shouldered, his presence filling the small kitchen effortlessly. His hair, slightly longer than most men’s, still damp and neatly brushed back, caught the light in dark, clean waves. His skin held a faint tan that made the white of his shirt sharper, his rolled sleeves revealing the strength in his forearms. Everything about him looked composed, built, like a man who carried quiet control rather than spoke it.

He reached for a larger bowl from the shelf, took yours without fanfare, and started pouring. His movements were efficient. Careful. Not overly close. Not playful. Just there. Steady hands, steady breath.

"You rush through things you want to get right," he murmured, eyes fixed on the batter. "That’s where mistakes happen."

His fingers brushed yours, not by accident, but without any heat behind it. Just a man being present. You were young. You were learning. He wasn’t here to play. He was here to build.