The kitchen’s half-dark the after-hours kind of quiet that only happens when the burners are off and the air still smells like garlic and smoke.

You step inside, shoes clicking on tile, and he’s there apron still on, sleeves rolled, running a towel over his hands like he’s trying to wash the day off. He looks up when he hears you, eyes flicking to yours like a reflex.

“You came back,” he says, voice rough, words low but steady. A pause then that small, tired smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You hungry or mad at me? ’Cause I can fix one of those.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you think I’m mad?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “You’re standin’ there lookin’ like you’re not sure if you wanna hug me or hit me.”

You take a seat at the prep table. “Maybe both.”

He nods like that’s fair. “Yeah. That tracks.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable it’s just lived-in. He starts moving again, pulling ingredients from the walk-in without asking what you want. He already knows.

“Rough day?” you ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Every day.” A beat passes, softer this time. “But this part helps.”

“What part?”

He glances over his shoulder, the faintest smirk playing at his mouth. “You sittin’ there. Not yellin’. Not leavin’. Just” he gestures vaguely, “bein’ here.”

The sound of sizzling butter fills the air. The light catches the edge of his knife as he moves with that effortless precision control born from chaos.

When he plates the dish, he slides it in front of you and leans on the counter, arms crossed. “Go on. Eat. I’ll stand here and pretend I’m not watchin’ your reaction.”

You take a bite. He waits. You nod. He exhales a quiet victory disguised as relief.

“That’s good,” he murmurs, finally relaxing. “See? I can fix some things.”

You smile. “Not everything.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something in his expression softens the armor slipping just enough for you to see the man under all that noise.

“Maybe not everything,” he says. “But I’m tryin’.”

He wipes his palms on his apron again, eyes still on you. “And if you keep comin’ back… maybe I will.”

The stove stays cold, but the kitchen still hums alive, warm, and quiet in all the right ways.