The front door groaned open, letting in a blast of late-summer heat that clung to your hero costume like a second skin. Twelve straight hours of patrol under a merciless sun had left every muscle aching, your throat parched, and your mind fixed on one thing: her.

Four years. Four years since you slipped that simple silver band on Rumi’s finger in a quiet ceremony with only the closest friends, four years of waking up tangled in powerful legs and falling asleep to the steady thump of her heartbeat against your chest. Four years, and somehow the sight of her still stole your breath every single time.

The hallway smelled like garlic, soy, and sizzling meat—your favorite yakiniku, the kind she only made when she knew you’d had a brutal day.

You kicked off your boots and followed the scent.

There she was.

Mirko stood at the stove in nothing but a white chef’s apron tied loosely around her neck and waist. The strings barely reached, leaving the smooth expanse of her back completely bare, the toned muscles shifting under caramel skin with every confident stir of the pan. Her long white hair was pulled into a messy bun, a few sweat-damp strands clinging to the nape of her neck. The apron’s front panel strained valiantly across her full breasts, the thin cotton doing almost nothing to hide the dark outline of her nipples or the generous curve where her chest met ribcage. Below the knot at her waist, powerful thighs and the firm, rounded swell of her ass were on full, shameless display—every inch of her a sculpted testament to speed, strength, and unapologetic sensuality.

She didn’t turn around right away. Just kept working the meat, hips swaying slightly to a beat only she could hear.

“Welcome home, babe,” she called over her shoulder, voice low and rough from the heat of the kitchen. “You’re later than usual. Thought I was gonna have to eat without my favorite plate cleaner.”