The morning light filtered through the high glass windows of the kitchen, casting a pale, golden sheen over the dark timber countertops.
Grayson stood by the stove, his dark grey sweater pushed up to his forearms, effortlessly flipping a thin, golden crepe in a heavy cast-iron skillet. He moved with a smooth, practiced fluidity that belonged to someone who had completely mastered the art of human domesticity. There was no smoke, no burnt edges, and no deadpan complaints about iron thermal conductivity.
Mailah walked into the kitchen wearing an oversized knit sweater, her bare feet silent on the warm oak floorboards. She walked up right behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her cheek flat against his broad back.
