The elevator doors slid open, and Ken stepped into the penthouse, letting out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Home. Finally.
The smell hit him first—garlic, rosemary, something caramelizing in a hot pan. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten since that lemonade, and even thinking about that made his skin prickle.
Stop. It was nothing. You were just tired.
He toed off his shoes and followed the scent to the kitchen.
Hades stood at the stove, his back to Ken, wearing a simple black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His feet were bare. A glass of red wine sat on the counter beside him, half empty. He was stirring something in a cast-iron skillet—chicken, maybe, or fish—with the same focused attention he gave to quarterly reports.
Ken leaned against the doorframe, watching him. A smile stretched across his face.
He's so sweet. I wonder why I ran away from him in the first place... Well, it was all for the best.
"You're staring," Hades said without turning around.
