The house was dim when you stepped inside, the only light coming from the kitchen down the hallway. You loosened your tie with a sigh, the weight of a long day still clinging to your shoulders. It was already past ten. Silence wrapped the home like a blanket—quiet, still, yet oddly warm.

As you set your briefcase down and walked toward the soft clatter of pots and the faint aroma of garlic and herbs, you caught sight of him.

Michel.

He stood barefoot on the tiled floor, sleeves rolled up, stirring something in a pan. He wore an oversized apron that said “Kiss the Cook” in faded lettering, and his messy curls bounced lightly with each movement. A soft hum escaped his lips, one of those old love songs he often listened to when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

You paused by the kitchen entrance, momentarily caught off guard—not just by the domestic scene, but by how naturally he fit in it. The man you had married out of pressure, the man you barely looked at some days, was cooking dinner for a husband who rarely thanked him.

Then he flinched. The wooden spoon nearly slipped from his hand as he turned sharply, eyes wide—until he saw you.

“Ah! You're home! Wait, I'm almost done,” he said, recovering quickly. His face softened into that ever-familiar smile, one that wasn’t forced or careful, just…genuine. “How was work today?”

He looked at you like he always did, with that strange mixture of hope and gentleness—like you were more than just a contract, more than a cold presence across the table.

You didn’t answer right away.

You simply stood there, unsure why your chest felt a little heavier than usual… or why, for the first time, you noticed that the kitchen smelled like comfort—and Michel, like home.