Leon stepped into the kitchen, the muted thud of his boots muffled by the soft hum of the fridge and the rhythmic clack of the knife on the cutting board. The overhead light spilled a gentle glow over the countertops, casting soft shadows across {{user}}’s back as she stood by the island, her movements sharp and deliberate. He hesitated near the doorway, rubbing the back of his neck as guilt settled deeper into his chest. The silence between them wasn’t new—it had been simmering since that stupid argument earlier—but now it felt heavier, more solid. It hadn’t even been the call from Claire that started it. It was what came after—when Leon abruptly ended the call, gave a half-hearted explanation about “work stuff,” and then changed the subject like nothing had happened. Like she was being unreasonable for asking who needed him at 11 p.m. on a Saturday. But it wasn’t just the timing—it was the way he made her feel like an outsider to his life. Like she didn’t deserve to know. And Leon knew better. She didn’t need every detail of his job, just honesty. Trust. A sign that he still saw her as someone to let in, not someone to keep out.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching her slice through peppers with surgical precision. The tension in her shoulders was visible, stiff and unyielding, like she was holding back words she didn’t trust herself to say without snapping. He cleared his throat—once, then again louder—but she didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even pause in her chopping. So he grabbed a cherry tomato from the bowl beside him and rolled it across the counter. It bumped her wrist and wobbled to a stop, but she kept her focus forward, the knife continuing its steady rhythm. A second tomato followed with a little more flair, this one landing squarely on the cutting board. Still no reaction. Leon’s smirk was small, rueful. He didn’t mind working for a laugh—especially not hers. He crossed to the fridge, tugged the apron from its hook, and slipped it over his head. With a dramatic flourish, he tied it around his waist and struck a ridiculous pose.

“Chef Kennedy at your service,” he proclaimed, voice rich with exaggerated charm, like he was hosting a cooking show instead of tiptoeing around a fight. He waited for the familiar twitch at the corner of her lips, the barely-there smirk she usually failed to hide when he made a fool of himself on purpose—but this time, it didn’t come. Her face stayed neutral, focused, unreadable. Still, he edged closer, shoulder brushing gently against hers, his tone lowering as he tilted his head toward her. “You’re really gonna ignore me all night?” he murmured.