The digital clock on the corner of the screen read 12:03 p.m.
Emily leaned back in her chair, stretching slightly as she glanced down at the pile of printed summaries in front of her. They'd been working for hours now — quietly, efficiently — side by side in the most surreal setting she'd ever found herself in.
Damian's study was beautiful, yes. But it was also personal. And being inside it made her feel like she was seeing something most people didn't — not just his house, but him.
He hadn't said much beyond notes and instructions. But the quiet between them wasn't sharp or cold. It was something else.
Something that felt dangerously comfortable.
She reached for her coffee, now long gone cold, and glanced at the man seated beside her. He was focused, reading a proposal draft, brow furrowed in thought. He didn't look stressed — just… thoughtful. A little less guarded than he did at the office.
Then, without looking up, he said, "Let's take a break."
Emily blinked. "A break?"
He finally looked at her. "It's lunch time. Come with me."
She hesitated. "Where?"
"To the kitchen."
"I can make something for myself—"
"I'll handle it."
"You cook?" she asked before she could stop herself.
He stood and pushed in his chair. "Don't look so shocked."
Emily followed him slowly down the hall, unsure what to expect. Damian Walker — suited, polished, control-obsessed — was not someone she imagined in front of a stove.
Yet, here she was.
And there he was — sleeves rolled up, barefoot again, standing at a sleek marble kitchen island as he opened the fridge like this was completely normal.
The kitchen was gorgeous: all dark cabinetry, warm lights, and stainless steel appliances that probably cost more than her rent. But it wasn't cold. It was lived in. There were no signs of clutter, but there was a fruit bowl, a few knives laid out neatly, and a subtle scent of citrus in the air.
He pulled out fresh vegetables, a package of pasta, olive oil, garlic, a few spices.
"Sit," he said simply, nodding to the counter stools on the opposite side of the island.
She obeyed.
"This is unexpected," she murmured, watching him start to dice a tomato with surprising ease.
He didn't look up. "You thought I lived off private chefs and catered dinners?"
She gave him a half-smile. "Yes. Honestly."
He glanced at her then, one brow raised. "Fair. I do. Sometimes. But I prefer to cook when I'm here."
"Why?"
"It's the one thing I can control that doesn't involve people."
She didn't know how to respond to that. But she understood it more than she expected to.
He sautéed garlic in a pan, poured olive oil in like he'd done it a thousand times, then began slicing basil with quiet precision.
Emily found herself mesmerized. Not just by the way he moved — fluid, unhurried — but by the fact that this was what he chose to do with his quiet time.
She expected silence, but instead he asked, "Do you cook?"
"Barely," she admitted. "I survive on grilled cheese, eggs, and occasional bravery."
He smirked — and she felt that tiny tug in her chest again.
"This looks… good," she said, watching as he added penne to the boiling pot and dropped in chopped vegetables. "Really good."
He plated the food a few minutes later — one dish for each of them, no fuss, no fancy presentation, just fresh, warm pasta that smelled like garlic, basil, and something quietly indulgent.
He handed her a fork. "Taste first. Judgment later."
Emily took a bite.
And then another.
And looked at him like he'd just told her a secret.
He leaned one elbow on the counter. "Well?"
"You're either showing off or this is witchcraft."
Damian gave a rare, full smile — brief, crooked, but real.
And for a moment, there was no tension between them. Just quiet laughter. The clink of forks against porcelain. The strange intimacy of a meal shared not in a boardroom or over office schedules, but in a sunlit kitchen with no one else around.
She found herself watching him in a new way.
And wondering — not for the first time — who the man beside her really was when he let the silence fall naturally.
And who she was, now that she was starting to feel it all shift.