He looked exactly as he always did: immaculate, his dark hair combed back, his charcoal suit jacket unbuttoned.

His eyes immediately swept the room.

They lingered on the closed laptop, then on the spice rack, and finally on me.

“You’re working hard,” he said, his voice smooth and calm.

“I decided to come home for lunch. I brought some of that imported olive oil you like.”

He set the paper bag on the island, right next to his charging phone.

He didn’t pick up the phone immediately.

Instead, he walked over to where I stood at the counter.

He stood directly behind me, his chest pressing lightly against my back.

I could smell his cologne, a sharp scent of cedar and leather.

He reached around me, his hands covering mine on the handle of the chef’s knife.

“Your grip is too tense, darling,” he whispered near my ear.

He guided my hand, pressing the blade down through a clove of garlic with slow, heavy pressure.

“If you hold the knife like this, you’ll lose control.”

He adjusted my fingers, his touch firm and unyielding.