Michael's POV
The sound of Reagan's voice drifted from the hallway, calling out with that familiar tone that always made my chest tighten with a complex mix of love and frustration.
"Dad?"
I kept my focus on the pot before me, watching steam curl upward as I stirred the contents with deliberate precision. The rich aroma filled every corner of the kitchen, but my mind wasn't on the cooking itself.
"I'm here," I responded without turning around.
His footsteps approached slowly, then stopped abruptly at the kitchen entrance. The silence that followed stretched long enough that I couldn't suppress the slight smirk tugging at my lips.
"Wait, are you actually cooking?" Disbelief colored every syllable of his question. "Dad, this is incredible. When was the last time you cooked anything? It has to be years."
I finally pivoted to face him, using the kitchen towel draped over my shoulder to wipe my hands clean. The look of genuine shock on his face was almost amusing.
