Lara's POV
Marco moved around the kitchen with an ease that should not have been allowed to look this devastating.
I stayed where he told me to sit, perched on the counter like an obedient audience, my hands folded on my lap even though my fingers itched to curl into the fabric of my dress. He had not asked me to help. He had told me to watch.
And he knew exactly what he was doing.
He rolled his sleeves up slowly, deliberately, exposing his forearms as he chopped vegetables with practiced precision. The knife hit the board in steady, confident rhythms, each sound echoing far too loudly in my chest. His shoulders flexed beneath his shirt when he reached for the pan, and the heat from the stove seemed to cling to him, wrapping around his body like it belonged there.
"You're quiet," he said casually, not looking at me. "Am I boring you, Lara?"
I swallowed. "Not at all."
The corner of his mouth lifted, smug. Dangerous.
