RYLEE

The kitchen hums with low music, a soft acoustic melody spilling from my phone speaker. The volume is just enough to fill the silence, but not so loud that it drowns out the sizzle of butter in the pan. I flip the pancake, watching the golden batter bubble and set, feeling oddly soothed by the simplicity of it.

My fingers tap against the counter as I wait for the edges to crisp. I should be working — my laptop is open beside me, blinking with unfinished emails and half-written project notes. But I couldn't focus upstairs, and the house felt too suffocating to stay locked in my room.

I needed this. The small ritual of mixing batter, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon, the warmth of the stovetop. A distraction.

It's ridiculous how easily my mind wanders back to Adrian, though. Even in moments like this, where it's just me and a pan of pancakes, he lingers in the background like an unwelcome shadow.

I press the spatula down harder than necessary, my chest tightening.

The house is too quiet.

Too big.

Too full of memories I can't outrun.

The wooden floors creak, and I freeze. I don't turn around — I already know who it is.

Adrian.

I feel him before I see him, the weight of his presence settling over the room like a storm cloud.

He always carries himself like he owns the space he walks into. Shoulders squared, jaw tight, an air of authority clinging to him like a second skin. But this morning, there's something lazier about him.

Maybe it's because he's shirtless.

I hate how my pulse reacts.

I keep my eyes on the pancake, flipping it onto a plate and moving to pour more batter into the pan.

"Could you not walk around half-naked?" I mutter, trying to sound indifferent.

Adrian grunts in response, the low sound vibrating through the kitchen. I hear the fridge door swing open, a water bottle being unscrewed.

"It's my house," he says finally, voice rough with sleep.

I grit my teeth. "It's our house."

His laugh is a sharp, bitter thing. "Right. Until the divorce is finalized, anyway."

I pretend that doesn't sting.

We fall into an awkward silence, broken only by the pop of oil in the pan and the soft strumming of the song playing in the background. I focus on my cooking, but I can feel his gaze prickling against my skin, like he's watching me too closely.

I give in and glance over my shoulder.

It's a mistake.

Adrian is leaning against the counter, water bottle tipped to his lips, his body all sharp lines and taut muscles. There's a faint bruise on his ribs — probably from one of his late-night gym sessions — and his hair is still messy from sleep, falling in disheveled strands across his forehead.

He looks...

I clench my jaw and turn back to the stove.

I hate that I still notice these things.

I hate that I still want him.

The pancake burns.

"Shit," I hiss, scraping the charred mess onto a separate plate.

Adrian chuckles. "Looks like you still can't cook without wrecking at least one thing."

I throw the spatula into the sink with more force than necessary. "And you still can't talk to me without being an ass."

He doesn't reply right away, and I think — for a blissful moment — that he might just leave. But instead, I hear his footsteps, slow and deliberate, moving closer.

Too close.

The space tightens.

He reaches up, opening the cabinet above me, his arm brushing against mine. The contact is brief, barely there, but it crackles through me like a live wire.

I stiffen, but he doesn't move away.

His chest almost grazes my back, and I swear I feel the heat radiating off him.

"What are you doing?" I snap, my voice sharper than intended.

"Looking for coffee," he says, but he lingers longer than necessary, his hand skimming along the shelf as if he's forgotten where we keep everything — as if he hasn't lived here for years.

As if he's buying himself time.

Or maybe just a reason to breathe me in.

I hate the thought of it.

I hate that my skin burns where he touched me, that my heart is slamming against my ribs like a trapped thing.

"Coffee's in the pantry," I say through gritted teeth, not daring to turn around.

Adrian lowers his arm, and the withdrawal of his presence leaves the air too cold.

"You changed where we keep the coffee?" he mutters, stepping back.

I flip the last pancake onto the plate. "I change things."

Adrian doesn't answer, but I can feel his eyes on me — heavy, lingering. It makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.

I stab a pancake with my fork and slap it onto a plate. "I made enough for two," I mutter, shoving the plate toward him like it's some kind of truce.

He doesn't take it right away.

Instead, he just watches me for a beat too long.

Then, finally, he sits.

And we eat.

In silence.

Like strangers.

Like people who don't know how to love each other anymore.

Like people who maybe, just maybe, still wish they could figure it out.

The doorbell rings, and I almost weep with relief at the interruption.

I rip off my apron and storm past Adrian, shoving his shoulder with mine as I pass. He doesn't move, just watches me with that unreadable expression he always wears these days, like he's holding back a thousand things he'll never say.

I swing the door open, expecting the delivery guy or maybe Kami dropping by unannounced.

Instead, it's a courier.

Holding an envelope with my name on it.

I frown, signing for the package and shutting the door with my hip. I tear the envelope open, my heart stuttering as I scan the letter inside.

It's from the lawyer.

A reminder of the next court date.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat, folding the paper carefully and tucking it into the junk drawer, like hiding it might somehow make the whole thing disappear.

When I turn around, Adrian is watching me.

He doesn't say anything.

Neither do I.

We just stand there, the space between us a chasm neither of us seems willing to cross.

Finally, I break first.

"You're going to be late for work," I mumble, wiping my hands on a dish towel.

Adrian stretches, his muscles flexing in a way that makes my throat dry out. "So are you."

I pretend not to notice the way he smirks when I scowl.

Instead, I clean the kitchen with my back turned to him, trying to ignore the way his gaze lingers on me long after he's finished his pancakes.

Trying not to wonder what it means.

Or if it means anything at all.