Chloe leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching.
Kian moved with fluid precision—adjusting the flame, slicing ingredients with effortless ease, the quiet hum of the stove filling the silence between them.
And for a moment—just a moment—she let herself observe.
She remembered this.
The way he cooked.
The way his presence took up space, unwavering, controlled.
The way his movements were never rushed, always deliberate.
And then—before nostalgia could fully press against her—she spoke.
"Need help?"
Kian barely flicked his gaze toward her, something subtle shifting in his expression.
Then—soft, quiet.
"No."
She blinked.
Not dismissive.
Not careless.
Just—no. Because he could manage. Because he had always managed.
And instead of insisting—she let it go.
She exhaled lightly, adjusting the hem of her sleeve. "I'll take a bath. Clean Carter. Knock when dinner's ready."
Kian barely nodded, turning back to the stove.
Chloe lingered for a second.
Then—she left, retreating, keeping her distance.
And yet—the familiarity stayed.