Morning light slid through the floor-to-ceiling windows, pale and restrained, touching the edges of a space that still felt borrowed.
Nara woke early out of habit, disoriented for a brief second before the quiet reminded her where she was. Keigh's apartment didn't hum the way the city did. It breathed softly, deliberately. Everything had a place, and nothing felt rushed.
She padded into the kitchen, hair loosely tied, wearing one of the sweaters Keigh had given her. It swallowed her frame, sleeves slipping past her wrists. For a moment she just stood there, hands resting on the counter, unsure if she was crossing an invisible line simply by existing in the space.
Then she opened the fridge.
Keigh appeared a few minutes later, already dressed, jacket folded over his arm as if he'd planned to leave before realizing she was awake. He paused when he saw her, really paused. The sight of her there in his sweater, barefoot and focused, felt oddly grounding.
"You don't have to, there's a chef for that" he said, nodding toward the cutting board where she was already working.
"I know," she replied easily. "I want to."
That was how it began. She moved with quiet confidence, pulling ingredients together with an instinct that surprised him. Not elaborate, just intentional. The scent of garlic warming in oil filled the kitchen, followed by herbs, something citrusy, something comforting.
Keigh leaned against the counter, watching without meaning to. He'd eaten in restaurants across continents, had meals prepared by professionals who studied presentation like art, but this felt different, it felt human and warm.
They ate at the kitchen island, not the formal dining table.
"This is… really good," he said after the first bite, genuine surprise softening his voice.
She smiled, small and pleased. "You sound shocked."
"I am," he admitted. "In a good way."
That earned him a light, unguarded laugh. It caught him off balance more than any threat ever had.
---
Keigh settled into the office for his usual lineup of meetings. On the outside, his demeanor remained immaculate, precise, cold, untouchable. The kind of CEO people both respected and feared, but today, something subtle had changed.
During a strategy session, a call came through. It was Nara.
"Keigh… I'm planning to make dinner, and I realized I'm missing a few things. Can you bring some ingredients with you on the way home?" she asked, her voice carrying a mix of hope and amusement.
He raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. "You're cooking again?"
"I want to," she said quickly, almost defensive, "and I promise it'll be good!"
Keigh smirked. "I'm knocking off in about an hour, can you wait for me.?"
"Actually, i want to cook now, so you can come home to a ready made meal"
"Okay give me a few minutes. I'll have a driver deliver everything you need."
By the time he returned home that night, the apartment smelled divine. Aromas of garlic, sautéed onions, roasted cherry tomatoes, and fresh herbs floated through the air, wrapping around him like a warm embrace. Nara had taken over the kitchen with a quiet determination, chopping, stirring, and laughing softly at herself when something went slightly off.
The first dish she placed before him was a roasted vegetable and chicken medley, glistening with golden olive oil and sprinkled with fresh rosemary and thyme. Next came a creamy mushroom risotto, delicate yet rich, the rice perfectly cooked and seasoned. For dessert, Nara had whipped up a lemon tart with a perfectly crisp crust and a silky-smooth filling that smelled like sunlight and happiness.
Keigh sat down, initially careful, only taking a small bite. But then… he ate and ate. He ate more than usual, more than he normally allowed himself, because the flavors were astonishing. Each bite seemed to melt away the tension of the day, the stress of the office, the cold calculations. He could feel himself smiling, softly, almost involuntarily.
Nara watched him, an amused smile on her lips. "You're eating too fast," she teased, leaning on the counter.
"Too late," he said, voice muffled by a mouthful of risotto. "It's too good to slow down."
Between bites, they talked. They talked about everything, the funny disaster at her last cooking attempt, the way Zuri had dragged her to that club, the small joys she found in her event planning company. Nara laughed easily, her eyes sparkling as she recounted stories about Hellen correcting her mistakes in college, her "first-time-as-a-chef" moments, and the times she had tried to convince Zuri to take a healthier approach to life.
Keigh listened, leaning back, soft eyes hidden behind his usual composure. He found himself asking questions, not out of obligation, but curiosity, genuinely wanting to know the details, the quirks, the small things about her that made her Nara.
At one point, he caught himself in mid-meeting the next morning, absent-mindedly smiling at her voice on another call. His assistants and board members noticed the softness in his tone, the fleeting smirk, and whispered among themselves. It was shocking, the Keigh Dynamite they knew as unshakable, cold, and meticulously controlled was warm, alive, affected.
That very night, as the last bites of lemon tart were gone and the apartment was scattered with plates and cooking utensils, Keigh walked over and said softly, almost to himself, "You should cook more often."
Nara laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear. "I will if you promise to eat everything I make."
He nodded, a small, satisfied grin tugging at his lips. "Deal."
It was a simple moment, just food, laughter, and quiet connection, but it was the start of something deeper, a rhythm forming between them that was both comforting and unspoken.