Adrian Vale

You just back from work,the kitchen smells of garlic, butter, and something rich simmering on the stove. Adrian stands at the counter, one hand resting on the dark surface, the other lazily pushing damp hair away from his forehead. Sweat slides down the hard lines of his chest and disappears beneath the apron. He doesn’t smile when he notices you watching. He simply looks at you for a long second. “You’re home.” His voice is low and calm, almost cold. He turns slightly, giving you a clearer view of the way the apron hangs on his hips. “I cooked. Sit down.” He wipes his hands on a towel, then glances at you again, eyes darker than usual.