For the past three days, Leo had insisted on driving Olivia to the bakery every morning and picking her up every evening. Olivia had tried to argue. She insisted she could drive herself, that she could manage, and that he had a business to run. But Leo refused to let her travel alone while James was acting unpredictable.
He was protective, but he was not controlling. He did not order her around or demand compliance. He asked, he gave her options, but he made it clear he was not comfortable leaving her unprotected. Every time she tried to push back, Leo answered in a way that made her feel cared for rather than cornered.
Still, every evening when he brought her back to his house, Olivia went straight to the guest room. She did not linger in the kitchen or sit with him in the living room. She told herself she was just being polite, giving him his space after work.
The truth was more complicated.
Olivia knew Brooklyn was staying in the guest house out back. Even though Leo had told her Brooklyn was only a friend, Olivia still felt like she was intruding. She did not want to take up space in his home. She did not want to interrupt whatever dynamic he had with the beautiful, confident woman living fifty feet away. Most of all, she did not want to be the broken, crying married woman staying under his roof while someone else was nearby.
She was deeply grateful for Leo. She felt safe with him. But beneath the safety, she felt embarrassed, displaced, and unsure of where she belonged.
It was a little past eight in the evening when Leo unlocked his front door.
Olivia followed him inside. She was exhausted from another long day of pretending to function. Her body ached fromstanding in the kitchen, her mind was full of unread messages from lawyers, and her heart felt bruised from everything she was not ready to process.
As soon as they stepped inside, Olivia turned toward the stairs, ready to disappear into her room like she had done every night.
Before she could reach the first step, Leo gently caught her arm.
His touch was careful, light enough that she could have easily pulled away. Olivia stopped and turned around.
Leo studied her face, his icy blue eyes taking in her exhaustion. "That's enough of running away."
Olivia tried to deflect, offering a tired smile. "I'm not running away. I'm just tired. I don't want to bother you. I know you have things to do tonight."
Leo did not let her hide behind the excuse. "You're not bothering me, Liv." He dropped his hand from her arm. "You are helping me make dinner."
"Leo, I really don't—"
"I already took the chicken out," Leo continued, walking toward the kitchen as if it had already been decided, though he left her the room to refuse if she truly wanted to. "Wash your hands. You're on biscuit duty."
Olivia let out a soft sigh, the fight draining out of her. She followed him into the warm light of the kitchen. "What are we making?"
"Chicken pot pie," Leo said, pulling a large cast-iron skillet from the cabinet. "With a biscuit topping. The recipe is decent, but I fully expect you to insult it."
Olivia tied an apron over her clothes and moved to the island. "I don't insult food, Leo. I just offer constructive culinary criticism."
Leo handed her a bag of flour and a stick of cold butter. "Sure you do."
They fell into a natural, easy rhythm. Leo gave her small tasks—cutting the butter into the flour for the biscuits, seasoning the vegetable filling, and stirring the thick, creamy sauce on the stove. At first, Olivia tried to act like she was only helping because he insisted, but gradually, the tension in her shoulders began to soften. The familiar motions of cooking pulled her out of her own head.
“You’re chopping those carrots way too thick,” Olivia pointed out, leaning over the island.
Leo paused, knife in hand, and gave her an offended look. “I survived just fine before you walked into my kitchen to supervise me.”
“And it’s a miracle you did,” Olivia teased, reaching over to adjust the heat under the skillet. “You need to let the butter brown a little more before you add the flour, or the roux is going to taste raw.”
“You and your professional standards,” Leo grumbled, though a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“My professional standards are the only reason this is going to be edible,” she shot back.
The banter felt exactly like the old version of them. For a few minutes, there was no stolen money, no forged signature, no James, and no Brooklyn. It was just the two of them, standing in a warm kitchen, bickering over a recipe.
As Olivia rolled out the biscuit dough, she realized she was smiling for real.
The realization almost hurt. She had not felt normal in days.
While the skillet baked in the oven, they worked together to clean the counters. The playful mood shifted, settlinginto something quieter. Olivia wiped down the granite island, the damp cloth moving in slow circles.
