Steam curls from the pot in front of him, the smell of garlic and herbs filling the whole penthouse, and you’re talking without pause — hopping from your morning meeting to that article you read about billionaires buying islands, to a random story about the dog you saw outside the courthouse that wouldn’t stop chasing pigeons.

“You should’ve seen it,” you say, legs swinging where you’re perched on the counter. “This tiny thing, like half the size of my handbag, but the attitude? Full-grown wolf. Everyone was trying to coax it away, but no — he had a mission.”

Xavier glances over, lips tugging in the faintest smile, and goes back to chopping something — parsley maybe, the little flecks clinging to his knuckles. He listens like it’s the only thing he has to do, like the clink of the knife on the cutting board and the sizzle from the pan are just background noise for you.

“And then,” you continue, twisting your hair over one shoulder, “this guy — fully suited up, expensive briefcase and everything — actually tries to bribe the dog with a sandwich. Didn’t even sniff it. He just—” You trail off as you watch him pour something into the pan, shoulders shifting under his shirt in that way that makes you lose your train of thought.

He doesn’t say anything about it, but you catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes when he notices you stopped mid-sentence.

“Go on,” he says quietly, stirring.

You pick the story back up, even though you’re not sure he needs the ending. His quiet hums and the occasional glance feel more like a conversation than anything you’re saying.

The knife hits the cutting board again, steady and precise, and he moves around you without asking you to get down, his hand brushing your knee once as he reaches for something in the cupboard.