Viola stepped down the stairs, her hand trailing along the glass rails as she made her way to the kitchen. When she got there, she paused, looking at her husband's broad back where he stood at the stove, frying pancakes and flipping them, and felt the ache in her chest ease as she watched him.
He'd lost a bit of weight, and though it didn't make his muscles look any less defined, it gave him a different, more striking appeal. He wore a tank top and above-the-knee black shorts with a tiger print, his tattooed arms flexing as he turned the pancakes, silver hair disheveled and a little longer, falling around his ears.
The sight of him carried her back to a day so long ago, when she'd gone to his main quarters after he had passed out from draining the poison from her chest. The memory felt so distant and out of reach now, but looking at him reminded her of how she'd come down to find him cooking back then, just like this.
