[Sophie’s POV]

I don’t expect to find Cassian in my kitchen.

I expect quiet when I unlock the door. The familiar hum of the fridge. The echo of my own footsteps reminding me that Adrian had to leave, that the evening had already given me more emotional whiplash than most people get in a week. What I don’t expect is the sound of something sizzling, the low clink of a pan against the stove, the soft music playing from my speaker like someone has already decided this space should feel lived in tonight.

I pause in the doorway, keys still in my hand, my jacket half off my shoulders.

Cassian stands with his back to me, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messier than it was this morning. He moves with an ease that feels wrong in a way that makes my chest ache. He’s barefoot. He’s humming under his breath. He looks like he belongs here, and the realization hits harder than anything sexual ever has.

“You’re home earlier than I thought,” he says without turning around, voice calm, unstartled, like he felt me before he heard me.

“You’re… cooking,” I manage, closing the door slowly behind me.

He glances over his shoulder, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “I am.”

“That’s dangerous territory,” I say, trying to inject humor into my voice, trying not to think about how intimate this feels. “You’re going to ruin your reputation.”

He turns fully then, leaning back against the counter, eyes steady on mine. “I’m comfortable ruining a few outdated myths.”

I drop my bag on the chair and step farther into the apartment, drawn toward him despite the warning bells in my head. “How did you even get in?”

“You gave me a key,” he reminds me gently. “You said it was for emergencies. I decided emotional exhaustion counts.”

I exhale a laugh that turns into something softer. “I went out with Adrian.”

“I know,” he says, nodding once. “I figured that this could happen.”

That lands heavier than I expect. “And you’re.. Okay with it?.”

“I’m trying,” he says. “It’s clumsy. It’s imperfect. But I’m not pretending you’re a buffer anymore.”

I lean against the counter opposite him, watching the way the stove light reflects off his hands. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” he replies easily. “And I didn’t want you coming home to silence when your head is already loud.”

Something in my throat tightens. “You didn’t ask what kind of night I had.”

“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” he says. “I’m not here to interrogate you.”

I watch him turn back to the stove, the practiced way he stirs, the way he checks the heat like he cares if something burns. It’s disarming. Cassian is supposed to be control and precision, rules and restraint. Seeing him like this feels like discovering a hidden room in a house I thought I already knew.

“You make it hard to keep emotional distance,” I say quietly.

“That’s because I’m not trying to,” he replies, just as quiet.

I swallow. “Cassian.”

He turns again, more serious now, eyes intent but not overwhelming. “Sit,” he says, nodding toward the counter stool. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“You’re ordering me around in my own apartment.”

“I’m feeding you, and I’m concerned about your health,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”

I sit, because I want to, because the choice feels important. He plates the food with care, sets it in front of me like it matters how I receive it.

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