The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and you stepped out into your shared penthouse, heels clicking on the marble floor. The weight of the day—a courtroom battle, endless paperwork, and the sheer intensity of being an attorney—still clung to your shoulders.

The scent hit you first.

Garlic. Butter. A hint of rosemary. Comfort.

You rounded the corner into the open-plan kitchen and living area, and there he was—Grayson. Hair tousled, sleeves rolled up, apron tied around his waist, a glass of white wine in one hand and a spatula in the other. He glanced over his shoulder, catching your eye with that soft, lopsided grin that always made your knees weak.

“You’re home,” he said, voice low and warm, just like the lighting in the room. Jazz played softly from the speaker in the corner. “Tough day, counselor?”

You exhaled, letting your bag slip from your shoulder to the couch. “Torture.”

Grayson chuckled. “Then tonight, I’m your remedy. No work talk. Just wine, food, and me. In that order.”

He turned back to the stove, gently flipping the asparagus and chicken in one pan while glazed carrots simmered in another. You stepped closer, wrapping your arms around him from behind, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

“I wanted to,” he replied, setting the spatula down and turning to face you. “You fight the world all day. Let me fight the kitchen for you.”

He offered you the wine glass, now half full, and you took it gratefully. The first sip was crisp, cool, and immediately relaxing.

“Go change,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Dinner’ll be ready in ten. And after that… I’ve got dessert plans.”