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Derek followed Olivia into the heart of the apartment, his heavy boots sounding loud against the hardwood compared to the soft scuff of her bare feet. He stopped at the edge of the kitchen, taking in the organized chaos. The island was a battlefield of prep work: half-diced bell peppers, a small mountain of scallions, and a bowl of carrots that looked like a cry for help.

“Wow,” Derek said, his voice dropping into a low, amused rumble. “Can I ask what exactly the plan was here, Liv? Were you preparing a feast for a small army, or...?”

Olivia let out a small, self-conscious laugh, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of hair back into her messy ponytail. The movement pulled her crop top slightly higher, and Derek’s gaze snagged on the curve of her waist before he forced himself to look at the vegetables.

“No army,” she admitted, her voice softening. “I guess I was just... trying to distract myself.”

The air in the kitchen grew thick and quiet. Derek didn’t need to ask what she was distracting herself from. He knew the gray static of a lonely apartment all too well; he’d spent the past few weeks pacing his own floor, nearly wearing a hole in the rug. If she had turned him away at the door, he’d likely be doing the exact same thing right now—looking for a way to distract himself.

“Right,” he said, clearing the grit from his throat. He shed his leather jacket, draping it over the back of a barstool. In his dark shirt, after rolling his sleeves up to reveal muscled forearms, he looked dangerously at home. “So. What can I do to help?”

Olivia hummed, tapping her chin with a finger that was still stained orange from the carrots. “Hmm. You could help with the prep for the fried rice... or,” she paused, her eyes dancing with a sudden, mischievous glint as she leaned against the counter. “You could make us a drink or two while we tackle this pizza. How are your mixology skills? Actually,” she laughed, “I feel like I shouldn't even be asking that. Because, you know... it’s you.”

Derek narrowed his eyes at her, a challenge sparking in his dark iris. “Is that judgment I sense, Liv?”

“No. No judgment at all,” she replied quickly, though the grin on her face said otherwise. She turned back to the counter, grabbing the bowl of carrots with an exaggerated focus. “I’m just saying... you’re very practiced at things like that. The wayward things, I guess.”

“The wayward things?” Derek repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like a dare. He moved a step closer, invading her personal space just enough to make the air vibrate. “Do I even want to know what you mean by that?”

Olivia risked a glance over her shoulder, her cheeks flushing a faint, pretty pink. “Let’s just say you have a PhD in high-end spirits and brownies that can make a person forget their own name. Take it as a compliment, Derek.”

“A backhanded one,” he countered, his voice dropping to that intimate, gravelly register that usually made her knees weak. “But I’ll take it. Mainly because it’s true—I’m exceptional at things that aren't necessarily good for you.”

He reached past her to grab a bottle of vodka from the counter, his arm brushing hers for a fraction of a second. The contact was like a live wire.

“Now,” he muttered, his eyes locking onto hers for one intense heartbeat. “Where’s the rest of the supplies? If I'm going to be the wayward bartender, I need to know what I'm working with.”

Olivia showed him where the items were, and Derek moved through her kitchen with a surprising, fluid grace. He gathered the supplies like a man who had spent quite some time behind high-end bars. He started with the fruit, his hands steady and precise as he sliced a blood orange into translucent wheels. He tossed a handful of fresh blackberries into a shaker, muddling them with a sprig of slapped rosemary until the air smelled like a forest in winter. He poured a generous measure of the vodka over the crushed fruit, followed by a splash of elderflower liqueur and a squeeze of tart lime. The rhythmic, metallic thrum-thrum-thrum of the shaker was the only sound in the room for a moment, a steady heartbeat that seemed to sync with the quiet comfort growing between them.

Olivia watched him from the corner of her eye while she swept the diced carrots into a bowl. She couldn't help thinking how much she'd missed spending time with him like this. Derek was already slowly returning to his usual funny and playful self, and she was just glad to soak it all up. Neither of them tried to talk about what this reconciliation meant for them, or their relationship. They weren't defining the boundaries or dissecting the wreckage of the past few weeks. They were just two people in a warm kitchen, glad to be in each other's company again, soaking in the absence of a fight.

“Guess which animation I started watching?” Olivia asked, her voice light. 

Derek looked up, a familiar, crooked spark of a smile tugging at his mouth. He strained the deep purple liquid into two chilled coupe glasses, the color of a bruised sunset. “Oh, I don’t think I can guess. We went down a rabbit hole of about five different titles the last time we talked about it.” He topped the drinks with a splash of soda water, the bubbles dancing against the rosemary garnish. “Hmm. Let’s see... South Park?”

Olivia laughed, shaking her head as she reached for the scallions. “Nope. Not even close.”

“BoJack Horseman? No, too depressing,” he mused, sliding one of the glasses toward her across the marble island. “Give me a hint.”

“Big Mouth,” she said, popping a blackberry into her mouth.

Derek actually choked on a laugh, nearly spilling his own drink. “No way. Absolutely not. That show is... Liv, that show is aggressively filthy.”

“It is not!” Olivia defended, laughing so hard she had to lean against the counter. “I prefer to think of it as ‘uncomfortably educational.’ It’s a coming-of-age journey, Derek. Very deep.”

“Yeah, right,” Derek said, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her heart do a slow, dangerous roll. “It’s a journey into the mind of a hormone monster. It’s weird, it’s graphic, and okay... fine, it’s actually hilarious.” He gestured with his glass toward the living room and the mountain of prep work remaining. “But I’m holding you to that. We could watch it together once we’ve conquered all of this.”

“Definitely,” Olivia agreed. She picked up the glass he’d made for her. The cool stem felt right in her hand, and as she took a sip—the tart lime and earthy rosemary hitting her tongue perfectly—she looked at him over the rim.

The "definitely" wasn't just about the show. It was an invitation to stay. To keep occupying the space…Her space.