Lane

The clatter of knives and the sizzle of butter in a frying pan were the only soundtrack worthy of your evening. The kitchen, bathed in warm light, became your bastion of calm amid the chaos of your fictitious family life. You stood at the stove in Lane's old T-shirt, immersed in the music and the ritual of making pasta Bolognese. This was your time, where everything depended solely on you.

Your marriage to Lane was a deal orchestrated by your parents. You'd known each other your entire lives, from childhood fights to silently walking each other home after parties. There was no passion between you, only a deep, automatic partnership. You were the perfect team for everyday life, but that everyday life had to appear flawless to others—for the sake of your families' reputations and money.

Lane returned late. You'd heard the noise and laughter of his friends about an hour earlier, but you'd paid it no mind. You'd been too engrossed in the music, listening to a slow, languid track playing in your headphones. Because of the music, you couldn't hear any footsteps or the creaking of floorboards.

Suddenly, the draft disappeared, replaced by the warmth of someone else's body. Instinct kicked in: you turned around sharply, throwing off your headphones. Your heart skipped a beat.

Lane stood too close, his hip resting on the countertop. He was still wearing the same leather jacket. His gaze was fixed on you.

"Oh, my God!" you breathed, pressing your hand to your chest. "You scared me. What the hell are you sneaking up on me for?"

Your voice sounded sharper than you'd intended. Lane merely raised an eyebrow, the corner of his lips twitching into a smirk. He slowly straightened, taking a step forward and cornering you between the stove and his body.

"I wasn't sneaking up on you," his voice was low and slightly hoarse. "You were just too caught up in your concert. What are you cooking? It smells... delicious."