"Mom's spaghetti is the best in the world!" Sofia boasted to him proudly. "You're gonna love it!"
Seeing her so happy, I knew I'd made the right choice.
Even if it would make everything more complicated.
The dinner prep felt... odd.
I busied myself in the kitchen while he kept Sofia entertained in the living room. But I could feel his gaze on me everynow and then, intense and heart-quickening. Each time I turned, I'd catch him looking, only for him to glance away casually, a small smile on his lips.
And I... I found myself stealing glances, too.
His shirt was half-dry now, no longer clinging, but my memory was vivid. I could still picture those lines, the contours of his muscles...
Damn it, what was I thinking?
"Need a hand?" He suddenly appeared in the kitchen doorway, startling me.
"No," I said, nearly knocking over the salt shaker. "I've got it."
"At least let me set the table," he insisted, stepping inside, close enough that I could smell him—masculine hormones mixed with faint cologne and the lingering sweat from earlier, even stronger than from the wet shirt, making my heart pound. "Where are the plates?"
"Upper cabinet," I said, giving in.
He reached up and took down three plates, moving with a familiarity that felt like he'd done this in my kitchen a hundred times. The illusion made my chest tighten.
"What does Sofia like to eat?" he asked out of the blue.
"What?" I almost choked on my own saliva.
"I mean, does she have any favorites or things she hates?" He turned to face me, his brown eyes full of sincerity. "I want to... know more about her. Everything about her."
I stopped what I was doing and looked at him. The question was too personal. Too much like something a father would ask.
"She eats anything," I said shortly, resuming stirring the tomato sauce. "She's not picky."
"What about things that scare her?" he continued. "Like thunder? I noticed earlier she was being really careful with the blocks, like she didn't want to make noise..."
My hand paused. He'd observed her too closely.
"She's just a quiet kid," I said coolly. "Most five-year-olds are like that."
A brief silence filled the air.
I could feel him watching me, but I refused to turn around.
"Anna," he said softly. "I know this is complicated. But I want to know her. I want—"
"You don't need to know anything," I cut him off, turning to face him and forcing my voice to stay steady. "You helped me out, so I'm feeding you. That's all. Nothing more."
Pain flickered in his eyes.
"I understand," he said, nodding. "I won't... overstep."
But even as he said it, I could see the suppressed longing in his gaze—the desire to learn about Sofia, to be part of her life, to be... a father.
"Thanks," I said, turning back to the stove.
The kitchen fell silent again, broken only by the bubbling of the pot and the occasional sound of Sofia's laughter from the other room.
