The kitchen smelled like ginger and star anise—warm, fragrant steam curling through the air like a mother's unspoken worry made tangible—but underneath it lingered something sharper, something electric that had nothing to do with broth.
Ms. Chen moved through the sleek, modern space like she was trying to tame it with tradition. Stainless steel gleamed coldly under recessed lights, sharp edges rejecting the soft domesticity of simmering soup.
But she kept stirring anyway, her hips swaying slightly under the thin cotton of her lounge pants, the fabric clinging to the generous curve of her ass with every subtle shift of weight.
Peter sat at the island, watching her with quiet intensity. She was very carefully not looking at him for too long.
