Roman really did not care about that shirt.

Before telling him, Violette Ellis had even considered buying a replacement. But after searching for half an hour, she could neither find the logo nor a matching style. That, at least, gave her the time to properly inspect Roman’s side of the walk-in closet. His wardrobe was strictly monochrome—blacks, whites, and grays—much like his first impression: steady, composed, and monotonous.

Having hit a dead end in the closet, Violette had no choice but to confess. She had assumed Roman wouldn't make a scene, but she hadn’t expected him to brush it off so lightly, not even offering a single "be more careful next time."

"Are you sure you don't want me to pay for it?"

"If you really want to compensate me, you can play assistant tonight."

That was what he said, but once they were actually in the kitchen, Roman gently ushered her out.

Violette blinked. "Didn't you say you wanted me to help?"

The kitchen island was piled with two massive bags of groceries—the spoils of their supermarket run. Violette had rarely stepped foot in a kitchen growing up, and between her grueling shifts at the station, she survived mostly on cafeteria food. Her presence here served little purpose beyond moral support.

Roman had already rolled his sleeves to his elbows, expertly prepping the chicken. At her question, he lifted his chin slightly. "There are disposable gloves in the drawer. Get me a pair."

Violette obeyed. She pulled a pair from the box, peeling the plastic apart, and helped him slide his fingers into them one by one.

"What else? Do you need anything else?"

Roman looked down. "My left cuff. Help me roll it up a bit more."

She leaned in, her scent enveloping him. As she bowed her head, her breath brushed softly against his skin, and her fingertips traced the curve of his arm. Roman instinctively tensed, his muscles hardening. Under the steady stream of water from the faucet, he hoped the chill would dampen the sudden, rising surge of restlessness in his veins.

He bent down, grazing the top of Violette's hair with his jaw.

"That's enough. I’ll handle the rest."

Violette took him at his word. "So, I’m heading out?"

Roman nodded. "With you here, I really can't concentrate."

Violette had heard the exact same line from her mother, Catherine Palmer. During a rare holiday at home, she had tried to help in the kitchen, only to be booted out moments later.

Violette had pouted in frustration. "You’re always nagging me about not knowing how to do this or that, and then the moment I step in, you kick me out. Honestly, Mom, you’re impossible!"

Catherine had retorted, voice sharp, "Is it me who’s impossible? Look at these potatoes you peeled—you started with a pound and ended up with half! And look at the greens—there’s nothing left but two pathetic leaves. If your father walked in now, he’d think I bought a bag of scraps from the dumpster. Go on, get out. With you in here, I can’t focus. I’m busy worrying you’ll slice your fingers or get splattered with hot oil. Stop adding to my heart trouble and get out!"

In this moment, Roman and Catherine’s silhouettes perfectly overlapped. The only difference was the tone—one was gentle, while the other was ready to swing a spatula at her head.

Violette shrunk back, floating out of the kitchen with a lingering sense of relief. She sank back into the sofa, her gaze drifting past the island to linger on the kitchen.

The man was a study in motion. Broad shoulders, a tapered waist, and forearms where the muscles rippled with effortless strength. His palms were large—wide enough to grip her waist firmly. When he pulled her close, she could see those same forearm muscles bunching up, the veins pulsing with every movement.

Why was she thinking about that?

Violette pressed the back of her hand against her flushed cheek, shaking her head to clear out the stray, inconvenient thoughts.

The water continued to splash in the kitchen. Roman approached the ingredients with the same calculated precision he brought to his business; the spices and seasonings were no different to him than the dry data on his tablet, handled with a slow, methodical grace.

Violette watched him for a long time, lost in thought. It wasn't until Roman turned around, his gaze locking with hers over the island, that she jolted.

"What is it?"

Violette, her ears burning red, immediately turned away. "Nothing."

She scrambled to grab her phone, pretending she had been busy all along. The phone, as if on cue, buzzed twice, shattering the tension.

It wasn't a pretense anymore; a new message had popped up. It was from Chloe Nichols.

Chloe: Blake Pierce asked me out for dinner. What do you think?

Chloe: Should I say no?

Until recently, the three of them had been casual acquaintances. Violette had no reason to turn down a dinner invitation on anyone else's behalf.

Violette: He’s asking you, why are you asking me?

Chloe: He’s using the back door, and I’m not an idiot. Just answer me this: has he tried to contact you since he got back, and you just ignored him?

Violette: ...

Chloe: So, he’s taking the scenic route to get to you.

Regardless, Violette had made up her mind. The Tour’s stay in Deepwater was only eight days long. Once those eight days were over, Blake would be off to the next city. She just had to survive the week, and he wouldn't have the time to stick around and harass her.

Besides, he knew she was married.

She was a person who settled for the status quo and always looked ahead. Blake knew that about her, too.

Violette: I’m doing fine as I am. Let’s just not meet up.

She still hadn't made the final decision for Chloe, but she had made her own stance crystal clear. After she sent the text, the other end remained silent for a long time. Violette didn't intend to dwell on it.

Yet, despite her resolve, Blake’s shadow lingered in her mind. He had lost weight. The harsh, unrelenting ultraviolet light of the southern hemisphere had weathered his skin, leaving him with an air of travel-worn exhaustion. Perhaps because of that, his fan base—having been starved of his presence for months—was more rabid than ever. Wherever he appeared, the comments were flooded with "My heart breaks for him" and "Keep going, we’ll help you rise again."

Violette was long past the age of idolizing anyone; she didn't get it, but she respected it.

Her current standards were low: as long as they didn't bring her family into the insults, she could handle it. If there was a Guinness World Record for "Tolerance Under Fire," she might just apply. She had become quite skilled at finding joy in the misery.

Violette switched to another chat window.

Violette: Any packages for me today?

Marilyn: None.

She switched to another.

Violette: Will the interview be ready tomorrow?

Emma: I’m back in the game, Mentor! But it looks like you have other plans tomorrow. I heard from the sports department that someone else is taking me under their wing.

Violette: Really? I haven't seen the new schedule.

Emma: The Station Director changed it last minute. I’m sure he’ll tell you later!

A large part of her ability to keep smiling came from the people around her. Whether it was Charles Ellis, Catherine Palmer, or her colleagues at the station, they were all little sparks of light in the dim moments of her life.

And the brightest light of all was right here.

Violette clung to the doorway, drifting back into the kitchen. "Roman."

The man was focused on the bubbling clay pot, his eyes lifting. "Hungry?"

"No, I just wanted to ask—are you busy the next few days?"

Violette fought the urge to wrap her arms around him; with the pot boiling over, she knew Roman would strictly forbid it, demanding she stay at a safe distance. He was just that kind of man—gentle, yet impossibly rigid about safety.

Violette bit her lip, feeling a strange, shy heat rising for what she was about to say.

"I was thinking… what if I took my annual leave? Maybe we could… go on a honeymoon."