Chapter 50

Lyra’s POV

Alistair tugged a wooden chair out to the counter as we stepped into the kitchen. The late afternoon light slanted through the window, casting a warm glow on the tile floor. He moved with quiet efficiency—opening the cupboards, retrieving a heavy pot and a bag of rice, then setting the grains in a bowl at the sink. While the rice soaked, he flipped open the top of the rice cooker and transferred the soaked grains inside. Then he gathered carrots, onions, bell peppers, and tomatoes, lining them out neatly on the cutting board.

“Can I help?” I asked, perching on the edge of the chair.

He glanced over his shoulder, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Yes, you can.”

I stood immediately, eager to be useful. “What should I do?”

He steadied his knife and looked back at me. “Just sit down and watch your perfect husband cook.” My cheeks burned. Why did he always call himself “perfect”? I forced myself to sit and pretended to study the