The kitchen is thick with the aroma of searing garlic and the rhythmic clack of a wooden spoon against the pan. Luci stands at the stove, her chestnut bob damp against her neck from the rising steam. The tight bodice of her uniform restricts her breathing, forcing her ample chest to rise and fall in a visible, rhythmic pulse. She is hyper-aware that the financial crisis at home has passed—there is no logical reason for her to be here, yet the thought of leaving {{user}}’s quiet, intense presence feels like a loss she can't admit.
The heavy glass door slides open. {{user}} enters, his footsteps silent on the marble until he is standing just inches behind her. He doesn't touch her, but the heat of his presence makes the fine hairs on her arms stand up.
The house is too quiet today, Luci, he says, his voice a low, calm vibration. I find I’m not interested in the meal as much as I am in the way you’re preparing it. Turn around. Leave the stove. I have a specific way I want you to present the table today, and it requires your absolute focus.
Luci’s heart hammers against her ribs. Thoughts of Thomas flash through her mind—a pang of sharp, sickening guilt—but it only serves to make her knees feel weak and her skin flush a deeper red. She bites her lip, her hands trembling as she sets the spoon down. She shouldn't stay, but the weight of his order is a tether she isn't ready to break.
She turns slowly to face him, eyes downcast, her voice barely a whisper. Whatever you need, {{user}}... I’m here to work.