Husband

Husband
TRISTAN WOLFE

The smell hit me before the sight did.

Warm. Buttery. A hint of something burning—but not in an unpleasant way. It was the kind of scent that didn’t belong in this penthouse. Too... domestic. Too alive.

I rubbed my face as I padded barefoot into the kitchen, my shirt wrinkled from sleep and my mind still thick with the fog of the nightmare that had dragged me under hours ago.

My body moved out of routine, but my mind still clung to the image of tiny shoes.

And then I saw her.

Hazel.

Her back was turned to me, standing at the stove in one of my old shirts that almost swallowed her frame. Her hair was tied up haphazardly, with a pencil poking through the bun like she’d gotten distracted halfway through styling it. A tablet rested on the counter, propped up by a mug, playing a video in low volume.

“Now add the eggs slowly so they don’t scramble too—oh no, that’s too fast—” came the voice from the video.

She mimicked the movements intently, biting her lip as she poured something into a pan. She was concentrating so hard, the tip of her tongue was poking out slightly in frustration.

I blinked.

The image was so ordinary, so human, that it left me... still.

Still in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

She turned suddenly, catching my presence with that warm smile she wore too easily around me. Like I hadn’t been cold. Like I hadn’t built the walls so high she shouldn’t have been able to see over them.

But the smile faltered.

Her eyes dropped to the dark smudges beneath mine—proof of a night I wouldn’t speak of. Of grief I hadn’t earned the right to share.

“Tristan,” she said softly, like she was afraid a louder voice would make me disappear, “Did you sleep at all?”

I stood there for a second too long, the air between us carrying the scent of butter, burnt toast, and unspoken worry.

“I’m fine,” I said, a beat too flat. Then I stepped further into the kitchen, reaching for the coffee pot she’d already started. “You’re burning the toast.”

Her head whipped around to the pan. “No! No, no—” She scrambled to pull it off the burner. “Ugh, seriously?”

I took a sip from the mug, hiding the way the corners of my mouth almost curved upward. “Trying to poison me already?”

She huffed dramatically, tossing the charred toast aside and reaching for another slice. “Please, if I wanted to poison you, I’d do it in style. Not with carbs.”

That startled a chuckle out of me.

Hazel glanced at me quickly, the sound catching her off guard too. Her smile came back, smaller this time. Softer. Her eyes studied me like she was still trying to see past the calm I wore like armor.

“What happened?” she asked again, gently, cautiously.

I looked at her.

Instead, I nodded toward the eggs. “You’re holding the whisk upside down.”

She blinked, flustered, glancing down. “Wait—oh my God, seriously?” She groaned, switching the whisk around. “Why is cooking so difficult in real life? This looked way easier in the video.”

I leaned against the counter, watching her. There was something endearing about the way she moved—completely out of her depth, and yet refusing to give up.

She glanced at me, then looked back at the pan. “I just... I want to get better at it, you know?”

“Why?” I asked, genuinely curious. “You don’t have to impress anyone.”

She looked up, as if surprised by the question. Her cheeks flushed slightly, but she kept her eyes on the pan. “Well... I’m married now,” she said, voice light, but trembling just beneath the surface. “A wife should know how to cook... How else will I take care of my husband?”

The words dropped into the room like a stone in still water.

Silence echoed around us.

Hazel froze.

So did I.

She hadn’t meant to say that. Not like that. I saw it in the way her face turned a deeper shade of pink, eyes wide, lips parted like she wanted to rewind time five seconds.

I opened my mouth. Closed it. For once, I didn’t have a sharp reply. No sarcasm. No mockery.

Just that one word.

Husband.

I was her husband.

Even if this marriage was a contract.

Even if I didn’t deserve the gentle way she looked at me.

Even if she was trying to care for me when I didn’t want anyone to.

She dared a glance up at me, then quickly looked away, stirring the eggs with unnecessary focus.

“I mean... I didn’t mean it like that,” she mumbled. “I just—thought I should be able to do something nice. It’s stupid, forget it.”

“It’s not stupid,” I said before I could stop myself.

She looked at me again.

And for a moment, something raw flickered between us. Not romantic. Not dramatic.

Just two people trying to figure out what this strange, fragile in-between meant.

“Toast’s ready,” she said, breaking the moment with a half-laugh. “Again.”

I took the plate from her hand and set it on the table, silently

It was... full. Full of sizzling butter, the faint scent of something sweet, and the quiet clink of cutlery as Hazel plated whatever she had managed to make.

She didn’t say much after her accidental husband comment, and neither did I. Not because there wasn’t anything to say—but because the way she flushed and avoided my gaze had left something awkward and soft between us. Like we’d crossed some invisible line and neither of us knew how to step back.

“Here,” Hazel said, placing a plate in front of me. “Be honest, but maybe not too honest.”

I looked down. Two fluffy golden pancakes, slightly uneven in shape, with a small pat of butter melting on top. A little overcooked at the edges—but warm. There were a few slices of banana and a single strawberry cut with the kind of knife precision only someone new to cooking would bother with.

She watched me like I was about to deliver a verdict that would change her life.

“You made pancakes,” I said finally.

Hazel crossed her arms, defensive. “Don’t say it like it’s a surprise.”

“I didn’t know we had pancake mix.”

“I didn’t. I followed the video. From scratch.”

That pulled a reluctant smile from me. “Ambitious.”

“I’m a Voss,” she said, trying to sound proud, but her voice shook a little with uncertainty. “We don’t do things halfway.”

I cut into the pancake and took a bite.

It wasn’t bad. A little dense. A bit too much baking powder, and the butter was unevenly mixed. But it was warm, and sweet, and hers.

She watched me like she was bracing for a blow.

“It’s good,” I said. Honest. Plain. “Actually... good.”

Hazel blinked. “Really?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Because I feel like you’re the type who lies politely.”

“I’m the type who doesn’t talk unles
s I have to,” I replied dryly.