By the time Caro returned to the mansion that evening, the day's weight had settled into something heavier than exhaustion. She found Peter in the kitchen, of all places, an apron tied loosely over his shirt, something simmering on the stove that smelled, improbably, like the kind of meal someone's grandmother might make.
"You're cooking," she said, stopping in the doorway.
"I'm attempting to cook," Peter corrected, not looking up from the pot. "There's a difference, and I think the soup currently disagrees with my efforts."
Caro laughed, the first real laugh she'd had all day, and something in her chest loosened slightly at the sound of it. "Where did this come from?"
