The scent of coffee and warm butter drifted through the mansion's dining room, softening the morning light that poured through the tall windows. Sofia padded in quietly, still wearing one of Adam's shirts over her nightdress, her hair falling loose over her shoulders.
She stopped in the doorway. Adam was at the stove again, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he flipped pancakes. A pot of coffee steamed on the counter. He had been doing this every morning since she came home—cooking, brewing, hovering—as if the routine might knit her back together.
"Adam," she said softly, a smile tugging at her lips, "I'm fine. You need to go back to work."
He turned, spatula in hand, and raised a brow. "Are you sure about that?" His tone was teasing but his eyes searched hers for any sign of weakness.
She crossed the room and leaned against the edge of the marble island, watching him. "You've been here all week. Your company might revolt without its CEO."
