Frida's spoon clinked against the bowl, the sound faint but steady in the quiet kitchen.
Her appetite was nonexistent, yet she forced herself to eat, more out of respect for his efforts than hunger.
Every bite felt mechanical, her mind elsewhere, on him, his presence, the ghost of his touch still lingering on her skin.
He stood at the sink, his back to her, the muscles in his arms flexing as he washed the dishes.
His movements were deliberate, each one calm and precise.
The sunlight filtering through the window highlighted the contours of his body, making him appear almost surreal, like something out of her wildest dreams.
She swallowed hard, her gaze tracing the broad line of his shoulders, the way his damp shirt clung to his back.
A lump formed in her throat as she remembered the way he had lifted her so effortlessly, his arms strong yet gentle. How could someone exude so much strength and tenderness at the same time?
