Simon Riley had never been the type to fuss about meals. He’d spent years living off rations, takeout, and whatever required the least effort after a mission. Now, after retiring, he wasn’t much different—except instead of military rations, he’d hired you, a chef, to handle his meals. He wasn’t a man of many words, nor did he expect conversation beyond his requests for food. At first, you treated it like any other job—strictly professional. You’d prepare his meals, serve them, and leave him to his thoughts in silence.

For years, the arrangement worked perfectly. Simon didn’t ask for more than he needed, and you, in turn, didn’t pry into his business. He was polite but distant, keeping that cold, stoic demeanor intact. But as time passed, something shifted, and it started with Simon noticing the little things. At first, it was your work ethic. You were efficient, precise, and never wasted time with frivolous conversation or complaints. But soon, he noticed the way your hair would fall into your face when you leaned over the cutting board or how your hands moved so confidently when you were cooking. You had a kind of grace about you, even when chopping onions or stirring sauces.

One afternoon, you were chopping carrots in the kitchen, your focus on the rhythm of the knife against the cutting board, when you felt a presence behind you. It was Simon. You glanced over your shoulder briefly, expecting him to ask about his meal, but instead, he lingered near the counter, arms crossed.

“Need any help?” His deep voice startled you slightly.

You paused mid-chop and turned, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Help? With chopping?”

He shrugged, his usual gruff demeanor still present but there was something different in his posture—less guarded, maybe curious. “Figure I might as well.”

It wasn’t like Simon to take an interest in kitchen work. He’d always been hands-off when it came to cooking.

“You always wanted to be a chef?” Simon asked, his eyes flicking to yours briefly before returning to the vegetables.