For a moment the kitchen smelled like two things at once—garlic and onions from the pan, and the subtle warmth of wood and lavender from his shirt.
Nick and David retreated to the seating area, their voices fading into comfortable background noise. It left Emma and Zach in a bubble of warm water and quiet domesticity that felt oddly intimate.
He washed with the same methodical focus he brought to everything—rinse, soap, scrub, rinse again. No wasted motion. When he handed her the first plate, their fingers didn’t quite touch, but the near-miss sent awareness prickling down her spine.
“You’re surprisingly domestic,” she said.
“I live here.”
Which apparently answered everything.
It didn’t, but it was very him. She smiled, setting the clean plate in the cabinet. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Zach passed her a bowl. “But it’s accurate.”
“Most men wouldn’t volunteer for dish duty.”
“Most men are idiots.”
Emma laughed—couldn’t help it. The corner of Zach’s mouth shifted, not quite a smile but close enough to count. She was learning his micro-expressions, cataloging them like puzzle pieces: the subtle tension that indicated he was assessingthreats, the slight relaxation of his shoulders when his brothers were safe, the almost-smile that appeared when something amused him despite himself.
They fell into an easy rhythm. Wash, rinse, pass. Dry, stack, repeat. The warm water ran steadily. Dishes clinked softly. Their movements synchronized without conscious thought—Emma reached for plates the moment before Zach passed them; he adjusted his position when she needed space to open the cabinet.
Like they’d practiced this. Like they’d been doing it for years instead of days. Like they’d already learned each other’s patterns.
“You rearranged the counter,” Zach said.
Emma’s hands stilled on the pot she was drying.
“I—yes. I’m sorry, I should have asked?—”
“More efficient.” He rinsed a knife, careful and deliberate. “Coffee maker next to the mugs saves time.”
“You noticed.” She wasn’t sure why that surprised her. He noticed everything.
“Always.” He dried the knife immediately—she noted that, the way he never left blades wet—and positioned it in the block with the handle angled downward. Safe. Controlled. “You organize spaces naturally.”
“Family trait. My grandmother believed chaos in the kitchen led to chaos in life.” Emma smiled at the memory. “Every time she visited me at college, she rearranged my apartment.”
“Sounds intrusive.”
“It was loving.” She took the next plate from his hands. “She showed care by making things easier. Smoother. That was her love language.”
Zach was quiet for a moment, washing the pot she’d used for the carrots. “What’s yours?”
The question caught her off guard. Not because it was personal—that line had been crossed somewhere between him giving her his bed and her cooking dinner—but because heasked. He didn’t do small talk or surface conversation. Everything with him went straight to the core.
“Acts of service,” Emma said finally. “Like hers. Doing things that make people’s lives better, even in small ways.”
“The evacuation groupings.”
“Yes,” she dried a glass, watching the way light reflected on the crystal. “Or cooking dinner. Reorganizing your counter.” She glanced at him, unsure, butterflies taking flight in her stomach. “Is that okay?”
“Yes.”
One word. But the way he said it—quiet, certain—made warmth spread through her chest.
They were standing close now. The large island forced proximity, but this felt like more than logistics. Emma was aware of every inch between them—maybe six, maybe less. The heat of his body. The controlled precision of his movements. His faint, woodsy scent.
