a P

ng presence. Home. The word echoed in the vast, empty space o

the quiet moment. He glanced at the s

phone away. "I've got to go.

g a bright smile. "Go. Make

e as if searching for something. Then he gave a curt nod

was now my husband. I took a deep breath, the air still scented faintly with his cedar-like

ody piece of Lake Michigan at dawn, all pale blue light, silver water, and the faint outline of the Chicago skyline disappearing into mist. I hung

e glossy design magazine. The white refrigerator hummed softly in the corner, the stove was scratched around the burners, and the cabinets were sturdy but

market. I moved through the aisles with a sense of purpose, carefully selecting vegetables, chicken, and spices, my mind

I tied on an apron I'd packed and set to work. The kitchen, which had been silent and sterile,

for two. A simple meal of braised chicken, stir-fried greens, and steamed rice. I lit a s

. Damien stepped inside, bringing a gust of cool n

olor on the wall, and the steam rising from the plates on the table. He looked fr

r of raw, profound shock in his eyes, as if he had walked into a world he had never k

litude and the cold calculus of power, was ambushed b

from him, my fingers brushing agai

flexing in his jaw. "Yeah," he managed, his voice

d back to the kitchen to get

used them with a surprising, if slightly clumsy, proficiency. He ate the chic

ervously, waiti

is plate, then had a second helping of rice, and a third. His

clearing the plates. "I'll wash," he said,

this big, intimidating man carefully washing dishes in a kitchen I had filled with food was strangel

pulled out a small object and held it out to me. It was a keychain, a

his tone casual, almost dismissive. "Th

the first gift he had ever given me. I took it from hi

whispered, and I m

artment key, the little

" he said, his vo

ight,

ections, towards our separate bedrooms, sharing the s