Madison let out a soft, melodic sound, a half laugh, half sigh that seemed to vibrate in the very air between them before she turned back to the stove. Mike didn't follow her with his eyes; he followed her with his entire being.
He moved to the counter and sat, his movements heavy and deliberate, watching her work.
He watched her with a predatory sort of focus, a quiet intensity born of a sudden, sharp realization: watching Madison Reed navigate his kitchen, wearing nothing but a man's shirt and a layer of raw vulnerability, was a cosmic anomaly.
It was a glitch in the fabric of his reality. He had learned a long time ago, through a series of losses and fleeting moments, to look directly at the things that were unrepeatable.
He stared, memorizing the way the light played off the curve of her shoulder and the rhythmic, hypnotic movement of her hands.
