August stood over the stove in his cozy duplex kitchen, flipping golden pancakes with the kind of quiet focus only a man who actually cared could master. The morning light slanted in through the curtains, warming the small, lived‑in space filled with the scent of syrup and coffee.
His mind, however, was elsewhere.
Red hair.
Unpredictable.
He shook his head and muttered to himself, "Damn."
He hadn't lost it like this in years, not since marriage, not since he'd turned into the man he promised he would be: responsible, grounded, predictable.
But her.
She rattled him.
His thoughts were cut short by the sound of the front door opening and closing.
Footsteps.
And then,
"You look like shit."
Julian's voice was blunt as always, and August knew he didn't mean it as an insult. More like observation. They'd been inseparable since childhood, stuck together like glue, so much that people often mistook them for twins.
He risked a glance toward the hallway, still in his yesterday shirt, he hadn't bothered to wash off, and just smiled tiredly.
"Language, Julian," he replied, shaking his head.
Julian didn't soften. That was just his style.
But then,
"Good morning, champ."
August crouched slightly and scooped up his son as the little boy bounded in with a big grin.
"Dad! I had ice cream!" Liam announced proudly, waving sticky fingers before August set him down gently.
He turned off the gas with one hand and gave Julian a pointed glare.
"Really, Julian. And I reminded you what the doctor said about sugar."
Julian raised his hands innocently.
"Didn't forget," he said with a shrug, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he totally did.
Liam, oblivious, hopped into his chair while August began plating pancakes and bacon.
"Champ," he said as he set a plate in front of Liam, "Did you have fun at Uncle Julius's?"
"YEAH!!" Liam squealed, eyes wide. "Uncle Julius and I played games all night."
August blinked , somewhere between proud and exasperated, before placing another plate on the table for Julian.
Julian just grinned and shook his head.
August sighed, pouring coffee into two mugs. Then he stood back, watching his son dig in with the kind of pure joy that made his chest warm. This was the part he'd never trade.
Julian leaned back in his chair, fork dangling lazily between his fingers as he watched August nurse his coffee. The chef was quieter than usual, distracted, and Julian, being Julian, didn't miss it.
He nodded toward August, narrowing his eyes.
"So…" he began casually, "are you gonna tell me who she is, or should I guess?"
August didn't answer right away. He cut into his pancakes, took a bite, chewed… like stalling would save him.
Julian smirked. "Redhead, right?"
August finally raised his eyes, clearly caught.
"Julian…"
"Knew it. I saw that look on your face," Julian said, leaning in like he'd just uncovered a secret. "The last time you looked like that, you were 23 and couldn't stop writing poetry about your ex-wife on napkins."
August groaned. "Don't remind me."
"I'm just saying," Julian continued, grinning. "You've been living like a monk for years. Then boom, you're drinking, smiling, and not even changing your damn clothes."
August rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling despite himself. "It's not like that."
"Oh?" Julian arched a brow. "Then what is it like?"
August hesitated. "She's… different."
Julian whistled. "Dangerous?"
"Definitely."
"And you like that?"
August sighed into his coffee. "…Maybe."
Liam suddenly looked up from his plate, cheeks full.
"Is Daddy gonna kiss a girl?" he asked innocently.
Both men froze. Julian burst out laughing while August nearly choked on his drink.
"Eat your pancakes," August muttered, hiding his reddening face behind his mug.
Julian just grinned wider. "Oh yeah. You're in trouble."
***
Celine groaned as the throbbing behind her eyes yanked her from sleep. Her lashes fluttered open, and she sat up slowly, the morning light seeping through the sheer curtains, far too bright for her current state.
She winced.
Then it hit her, shots. Dancing. That cocky chef and his maddening grin. The memory of her boldness made her groan again, this time with embarrassment. She buried her face in her palms.
"How the hell did I get home?" she muttered.
As if summoned by thought, Stacy walked in, holding a tray with a steaming bowl of soup and a bottle of water.
"I swear, you don't pay me enough to be your assistant and your nanny," she said, kicking the door shut with her foot.
Celine peeked from between her fingers, voice raspy. "How did I get home?"
Stacy placed the tray on the bedside table and raised a brow. "I assumed the chef was good-looking, but girl... you didn't tell me he was freaking hot. He called using your phone."
Celine's blush deepened. "Stacy—"
"Oh, don't you Stacy me," she said, smirking. "Here. Eat this before your insides riot."
Celine took the bowl gratefully and started gulping the hangover soup like it held the cure to her entire life. "You didn't touch the food in the freezer," Stacy added with a shake of her head.
"I forgot I had them," Celine mumbled between sips. "It's easier to order takeout. Or pizza."
Stacy gave her a deadpan look. "You do know that's exactly why your third husband dumped you, right? You couldn't tell a pea from a bean."
"They're both legumes!" Celine argued half-heartedly.
"Hopeless," Stacy sighed. "What would you even do without me?"
"Nothing, dear Stacy. Absolutely nothing," Celine said, pulling her into a one-armed hug before devouring more soup.
Stacy's grin widened. "You know, Mr. Chef isn't bad. He cooks. Looks good doing it. Maybe you two could hit it off someday."
Celine choked. Literally.
She coughed hard, eyes wide. "Are you crazy, Stacy?! Have you seen my track record with men? That man wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot spatula. Besides… Nolan's still on my back."
"That ass," Stacy muttered. "Let me guess, he wants compensation now?"
"Worse. He wants my property."
Stacy blinked, stunned. "The fuck is wrong with that guy? Does he have no shame?"
"Tell me about it," Celine groaned. "I don't even know how I ever fell for him."
Stacy's voice softened just a bit. "You usually fall for the sweet talkers, Celine. It's not your fault."
Celine leaned back against the headboard, soup in hand, eyes distant. "Yeah… I really can't help it."