Utensils clinked softly, a pot simmered gently on the stove, and the quiet shuffle of slippers moved across the cool kitchen tiles—Leonard stood silently, soaking it all in like a man who had wandered too long through silence.
He stood just outside the kitchen entrance, arms folded loosely across his chest, watching Katherine.
She was cooking. For him.
His gaze followed the way her shoulders moved as she stirred the sauce, her hair now tied in a loose ponytail that had started to fall apart from the steam. She wore a simple top and slacks, nothing glamorous, but to Leonard, she looked almost surreal—like a dream he had been too afraid to reach for.
She had offered to cook. No hesitation, no bitterness in her tone. Her voice was calm. Steady.
She didn't have to. But she did.
And who was he to refuse something so rare?
He hadn't tasted her cooking in years. Not since the early days—when she still smiled easily at him.
