He didn't ask where things were. He just looked. Patient. Methodical.
"You don't have to do this," she said.
Luke glanced over his shoulder. "I know."
He worked quietly, efficiently. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and tomatoes.
Grace didn't understand what was happening. This wasn't seduction. This wasn't foreplay.
He was just… feeding her.
And it felt more intimate than anything they'd done in bed.
Luke set two full bowls on the small table by the window. Steam rose between them. He sat beside her, close enough that their elbows nearly touched.
Grace picked up her fork.
She was aware of the way he angled his body toward hers.
The pasta was simple. Nothing fancy. Jarred sauce, dried basil, grocery store noodles.
And somehow it tasted like the best thing she'd eaten in weeks.
Maybe because someone had made it for her. Maybe because Luke was sitting at her kitchen table like it was normal. Like they did this.
Like they were something.
When they finished, Luke took the bowls from her hands without a word.
"I've got it," he said.
He washed the dishes while she dried and put them away. Their movements fell into an easy rhythm—pass, dry, shelve. Like it was just a thing he did now.
A thing they did.
This was intimacy, Grace realized. Not the heat. Not the secrecy. Not the desperate touches in the dark.
This.
Standing side by side at her sink. Doing dishes. Being quiet together.
It terrified her more than the sex ever had.
When they finished, they stood there for a moment, neither of them moving. The kitchen was clean. The locks were new. The sink no longer dripped.
"I should go," Luke said quietly.
She nodded. Followed him to the front door.
The front door.
Not the back. Not slipping out into the alley like a secret.
Luke paused with his hand on the doorknob.
Turned to her.
Their eyes met.
