I laughed and pulled back. "See? Taking care of me."
"Someone has to." But his eyes were warm. "Dinner in thirty minutes. I'm making pasta."
"Yes, Daddy."
I headed for the shower, stripping off my ruined clothes and letting the hot water wash away the evidence of the night's work. When I emerged, clean and dressed in soft clothes, the house smelled like garlic and tomatoes.
Henny was in the kitchen, moving through the space with that efficient grace he brought to everything. Pasta boiling, sauce simmering, salad already plated. I leaned against the doorframeand watched him work, marveling at how domestic this felt. How right.
"You could come help, you know," he said without turning around.
"I prefer to watch. You're beautiful when you cook."
"I'm practical when I cook. There's a difference."
"You can be both." I moved behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist, my chin on his shoulder. "What can I do to help?"
"Set the table, please. Dinner's almost ready."
I did as I was told, finding the plates and silverware in their designated spots. Everything in our kitchen had a place, an order. Glasses in one cabinet, bowls in another, cooking utensils in the drawer by the stove. No hunting for what you needed. No chaos.
It should have felt restrictive.
Instead, it felt like the perfect sort of balance I needed.
We ate at the small dining table, talking about my day and the meeting Henny had attended with Dario while I was out. Normal conversation. Comfortable.
It was insane to think we’d only been together for such a short time. The way we worked, the way we just fit, was more like a couple who’d been through years of growth. Hell, we were already living together and we’d both accepted it without an in-depth discussion.
Some things were meant to be, I guess.
After dinner, Henny washed dishes while I put away food, another routine we'd fallen into without discussion. Then he retreated to his office to finish some reports while I settled on the couch with a blanket and the chocolate covered pretzels I loved. The tv was on, some show about travel that I didn’t pay much attention to.
Instead, I kept looking around, cataloging the ways my life had changed.
My weapons were mounted on the wall in the spare room. My clothes were hanging in the closet next to Henny's stuff. My toothbrush in the holder by the sink. My coffee mug in the cabinet, the baby blue one Henny ordered for me online after seeing me use paper to-go cups, because "you should have one here."
All the small ways Daddy had made space for me in his life.
And the routines.
Fuck, so many routines.
I'd never been that type of person. Every day was different, every job unique. I ate when I was hungry, slept when I was exhausted, showered when needed. Structure was for people with normal lives.
But Henny had to have structure the way some people had religion. He woke at six-thirty every morning, made coffee at six forty-five, ate breakfast at seven. Worked out at eight unless a job prevented it. Dinner at seven in the evening. Bed by eleven.
And somehow, without me noticing when it started, I had begun following the same schedule.
This morning, I'd woken at six thirty. Not because an alarm went off, but because my body had adjusted to Henny's rhythm. I'd wandered into the kitchen and Henny had already poured me a cup of coffee, exactly how I liked it. We'd eaten breakfast together, and I'd realized it was nice to have a proper morning meal instead of grabbing food on the run.
It felt like my life had stabilized in a way I hadn't known I needed.
The chaotic jobs were still there. My phone rang at least once a day with offers. It had gotten to the point I’d had to turn it off this morning just to get through the meeting with Rel.
And the violence, the adrenaline, the knife's edge of danger all remained too. But now I came home to order. I came home to someone who cared whether I ate dinner or went to bed at a reasonable hour.
"What’s got you so still and quiet?" Henny's voice came from the office doorway.
