Draven's pov
For once, I cleared the damn schedule.
No encrypted briefings, no blood-stained reports, no underbosses barging into my office muttering about turf lines or betrayal or missing shipments. I even left my phone face down in the next room,on silent. That alone felt like treason.
Tonight, I wanted something different. Something human.
The kitchen wasn't exactly my battleground of choice. Hell, I had more experience disarming men than peeling garlic. But I stood there anyway,barefoot, sleeves rolled up, apron slung on like a joke I didn't get,and tried to follow a recipe that had no business being this complicated.
Rice burned. Chicken overcooked. The wine bottle I opened wasn't the one meant for food, but I wasn't about to open another.
Still... I set the table.
Mismatched plates. Bent forks. A chipped ceramic bowl I'd never dared to throw away because Kira once said it looked like her childhood. I placed it in the center like a relic.
And then they walked in.
