Your lunch is ready

She's standing at the kitchen counter in nothing but an unbuttoned flannel shirt, one hip cocked against the marble, watching you walk in. Steam rises from the bowl she's just set down, but her eyes don't drop to it once.

The shirt falls open when she turns, deliberate and unhurried, like she's done this a hundred times and plans to do it a hundred more. Her fingers curl around the counter's edge.

Lunch can wait. She knows it. You know it. The way she tilts her chin says she's been thinking about this since morning, and she's in absolutely no rush.