Damien moved stealthily like a shadow, making sure each of his steps were deliberately silent as he made his way toward the kitchen.
It was almost like he was stalking a prey, and his lips curled into a faint smirk, anticipation pulsing in his chest with every step closer.
The door to the kitchen was only slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling through the crack.
Damien reached out, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the wood, and then pushed—slowly, carefully, with a measured patience that allowed the hinges to creak the barest bit.
The sound was faint, easily lost beneath the faint bubbling from the pot on the stove and the occasional hiss of oil. Claire, standing at the counter, didn't notice.
She was completely engrossed in what she was doing, stirring gently with one hand while leaning forward to check the contents of the pot.
Her focus was absolute, her movements graceful in their own absentminded way.
