Smoke drifted out of the kitchen vents at exactly six fourteen in the evening.

Not a lot at first.

Just enough for Marta to stop halfway through polishing wine glasses and slowly close her eyes like a woman reconsidering every decision that had brought her to this house.

Then the fire alarm exploded.

Ivy jerked backward from the stove.

“Oh, come on!”

The pan burst into another wave of smoke.

Something inside crackled violently.

Marta moved faster than should’ve been possible for a woman her age, grabbing a towel and yanking the pan off the burner.

“You turned the heat to maximum?”

“I thought it would cook faster!”

“This is salmon, not warfare.”

“I’m under pressure!”

The kitchen alarm kept shrieking overhead.

Ivy waved a towel uselessly through the air while coughing into her elbow.

Across the massive kitchen island, two staff members quietly evacuated like people escaping a natural disaster.

Marta opened windows with terrifying efficiency.

Cold winter air rushed inside.

Ivy pointed accusingly at the stove.

“This kitchen hates me.”

“The kitchen is worth more than your college tuition.”

“That feels judgmental and unnecessary.”

Marta gave her a long look.

Then she noticed the expression on Ivy’s face and sighed.

“Go wash your hands.”

“I can still save dinner.”

“The fish is black.”

“Some restaurants do that on purpose.”

“The potatoes are smoking.”

“That’s called atmosphere.”

“The garlic bread is on fire.”

Ivy turned sharply.

“Oh my God.”

Actual flames climbed the edge of the baking tray.

Marta pinched the bridge of her nose.

Somewhere behind them, a deep male voice said calmly:

“What happened?”

Ivy froze.

Lucien stood in the kitchen doorway wearing a black coat dusted lightly with snow. One hand rested in his pocket. The other held his phone loosely at his side.

His eyes moved slowly across the kitchen.

Smoke.

Burned pan.

Fire extinguisher sitting crooked near the counter.

Then finally—

to Ivy.

Silence.

Marta answered first.

“Miss Bennett attempted dinner.”

“I attempted success,” Ivy corrected weakly.

Lucien looked toward the stove again.

“You started a fire.”

“It was emotionally small.”

Marta muttered something in Italian under her breath.

Lucien stepped farther into the kitchen.

The air shifted immediately.

Not tense exactly.

Focused.

Everything around him always seemed to sharpen somehow.

Ivy crossed her arms defensively.

“In my defense, your oven has too many buttons.”

“It has four.”

“That’s excessive.”

Lucien stopped beside the ruined pan.

The salmon had fused permanently to the bottom like a tragic science experiment.

One corner of garlic bread still smoldered quietly.

He looked at it for several seconds.

Then—

very softly—

he exhaled through his nose.

Not quite a laugh.

Close enough that Ivy noticed immediately.

“You think this is funny?” she demanded.

“No.”

“You almost smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Marta stared at Lucien openly now.

Interesting.

Apparently near-smiles were rare events in this household.

Lucien removed his coat slowly.

“You tried cooking.”

The words came out strangely neutral.

Like he genuinely hadn’t expected that.

Ivy shrugged one shoulder.

“I got bored.”

“You could’ve watched television.”

“You own six televisions and somehow all of them feel intimidating.”

“That sentence makes no sense.”

“Your entire house makes no sense.”

Lucien loosened one cuff.

“You didn’t need to cook.”

“I know.”

The answer came too fast.

That made him look at her again.

Ivy grabbed a towel and started scrubbing aggressively at the counter.

“There are like forty people living here,” she muttered. “I figured maybe somebody should make actual food instead of whatever rich people eat at meetings.”

“We have chefs.”

“Yeah, but chefs are scary.”

“They’re chefs.”

“One of them looked at me like he wanted to stab me over parsley.”

Marta nodded slightly.

“Carlos takes herbs seriously.”

“See?”

Lucien leaned lightly against the counter now, watching her wipe the same clean spot repeatedly.

“You’ve cooked before,” he said.

“Obviously.”

“You’re bad at it.”

Ivy pointed the towel at him.

“Rude.”

“The evidence supports me.”

“The stove was aggressive.”

“It’s imported from France.”

“That explains the attitude.”

Another silence settled between them.

Softer this time.

The kitchen lights glowed warm against dark marble counters while snow drifted quietly outside the windows.

Marta disappeared briefly into the pantry.

Lucien’s phone buzzed once in his pocket.

He ignored it.

Interesting.

Ivy tossed the ruined towel aside dramatically.

“Well. Congratulations. Your mansion survived another day.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I wanted a dramatic cooking montage. Instead I committed salmon homicide.”

One side of Lucien’s mouth moved again.

There.

Definitely there.

A real reaction this time.

Tiny.

Gone quickly.

Still real.

Ivy pointed immediately.

“Oh my God. Again.”

Lucien’s expression flattened instantly.

“You’re hallucinating.”

“You have microscopic emotions.”

“You burned dinner.”

“That’s unrelated.”

Marta returned carrying fresh dish towels.

“You should eat something else tonight.”

Ivy groaned softly.

“Great. Fantastic. I almost poisoned the mafia.”

“You overestimate your cooking abilities.”

“I underestimated your fish.”

Lucien pulled his phone from his pocket finally.

“Excuse me.”

He stepped toward the far side of the kitchen while answering quietly in Italian.

Ivy watched him from the counter.

Black shirt.

Sleeves rolled slightly above his wrists again.

The sharp line of his shoulders visible beneath the fabric.

Annoyingly unfair face.

Even while discussing what sounded suspiciously like organized crime logistics, the man somehow looked like a luxury watch advertisement.

Deeply irritating.

Marta glanced toward Ivy while drying plates.

“You should stop staring.”

Ivy nearly dropped the spoon she was holding.

“I was not staring.”

“You stopped blinking.”

“I was thinking.”

“Dangerous activity.”

Ivy lowered her voice.

“Does he always look like that?”

Marta continued drying plates calmly.

“Yes.”

“Unfortunate.”

“For women, perhaps.”

“No, like… statistically. It feels unreasonable.”

Marta’s mouth twitched slightly.

Then her expression softened unexpectedly.

“You made dinner for strangers.”

Ivy shrugged awkwardly.

“I just thought everybody here looked sad.”

Marta paused.

The plate in her hands stopped moving.

“That’s a very dangerous observation.”

Before Ivy could answer, Lucien returned.

“You’ll eat in the sitting room tonight.”

Ivy blinked.

“Why?”

“The kitchen requires recovery.”

“That feels dramatic.”

“You burned bread.”

“One time.”

Lucien slipped his phone back into his pocket.

Food arrived twenty minutes later.

Not from the mansion kitchen.

Delivery.

Multiple bags.

Italian.

Ivy narrowed her eyes immediately.

“You ordered takeout.”

“Yes.”

“You secretly ordered takeout while I was committing culinary crimes?”

“You looked close to tears.”

The words landed gently.

Too gently.

Ivy stared at him.

Across the kitchen island, Marta suddenly became very interested in silverware.

“I was not close to tears.”

“You were holding a burnt spoon like it betrayed you.”

“It did betray me.”

Lucien moved one of the food containers toward her.

“You attempted something kind. No one here expected perfection.”

That hit harder than it should have.

Ivy looked down quickly and opened the container before her face embarrassed her.

Pasta.

Still warm.

Smelled incredible.

Her stomach betrayed her immediately with a loud growl.

Marta hid another smile.

Lucien looked away first.

Again.

Interesting pattern.

The four of them ate quietly for a while. Well—

Lucien and Marta ate quietly.

Ivy accidentally dropped parmesan on herself twice and nearly knocked over sparkling water while explaining why reality cooking shows were psychological warfare.

Matteo arrived halfway through dinner.

He walked into the kitchen, stopped dead at the smell of smoke still lingering in the air, then looked slowly between all of them.

“…Why does it smell like tragedy?”

Ivy pointed at Lucien instantly.

“He’s being mean to me.”

“You set bread on fire,” Lucien replied calmly.

Matteo looked delighted.

“Oh, I would’ve paid to see that.”

“You’re a terrible person.”

“That’s already in my family records.”

He stole garlic bread off Ivy’s plate and sat beside her.

“No one’s cooked in this kitchen voluntarily in years.”

Ivy frowned.

“Seriously?”

“Lucien hates people touching his stuff.”

Lucien took a slow sip of water.

“I dislike incompetence.”

“You alphabetize whiskey bottles.”

“They were out of order.”

“You timed Marta reorganizing the pantry.”

“She asked for efficiency.”

Marta muttered, “I absolutely did not.”

Ivy stared at Lucien openly now.

“Wow.”

Lucien looked unimpressed.

“What?”

“You really are emotionally constipated.”

Matteo nearly inhaled pasta.

Lucien’s eyes closed briefly.

Again with the resignation.

Amazing.

Dinner stretched later than expected after that. Matteo kept telling increasingly ridiculous childhood stories while Marta pretended not to enjoy them.

Lucien spoke the least.

But Ivy kept catching him watching.

Not constantly.

Worse.

Quietly.

Like he looked when she wasn’t paying attention.

That awareness stayed under her skin all evening.

By eleven, Matteo disappeared for a meeting and Marta finally ordered everyone out of her kitchen.

Lucien vanished upstairs without explanation.

The mansion settled into silence again.

Ivy stayed behind at the massive kitchen table with a mug of tea warming her hands.

The room looked softer at night.

Less intimidating.

She stared absently at snow drifting beyond the windows.

At home, Rosie would still be awake studying chemistry videos with headphones on. Their apartment radiator would be screaming like a dying animal.

Here, the silence pressed differently.

Heavy.

Expensive.

Lonely.

Ivy rested her cheek against one hand.

The tea cooled slowly beside her.

At some point, exhaustion pulled her under without warning.

—

Lucien returned to the kitchen just after midnight.

The room stood dark except for low under-cabinet lights glowing gold against marble.

He stopped near the doorway.

Ivy slept at the table.

One arm folded beneath her head.

Dark hair spilling across her sleeve.

Cold tea untouched beside her.

For several seconds, Lucien didn’t move.

The mansion remained completely silent around them.

Then he crossed the kitchen slowly.

A blanket rested over the back of one chair. He picked it up carefully and draped it over her shoulders.

Ivy shifted slightly in her sleep.

Lucien froze instantly.

But she only curled deeper beneath the blanket, face soft with exhaustion.

No sarcasm now.

No jokes.

Just a tired girl asleep in a stranger’s kitchen after trying to cook dinner for people she barely knew.

Lucien looked at the faint burn mark still visible on one of her fingers.

Then at the ruined pan still soaking in the sink.

Something quiet moved behind his expression.

Something dangerously close to warmth.

Ivy murmured sleepily against her sleeve.

“…the bread attacked first…”

Lucien stared at her for one long second.

Then finally—

very softly—

he laughed.