They sat down, the candlelight flickering between them, casting shadows that danced along the walls. Maya took a bite, her eyes widening in delighted surprise. “Wow,” she said, the words barely a sigh. “This is amazing.”
But today wasn’t about pigments and palettes. Tonight, Reagan had promised to take over the “husbandly duties” that Maya had been juggling for weeks—cooking, cleaning, and, most importantly, a little bit of “us time” she’d been craving. He’d been looking forward to it all day, a private promise he’d kept tucked behind the day’s deadlines.
“Hey,” he replied, setting the glass down. “You’re home early.”
Maya raised an eyebrow, curiosity sparking in her eyes. “Oh? And what might that be?” -PureTaboo- Reagan Foxx - Husbandly Duties -26....
When the dish was ready—a simple but elegant risotto with wild mushrooms, a splash of white wine, and a drizzle of truffle oil—Reagan plated it with an artist’s care, arranging the grains like brushstrokes on a white canvas. He carried the plates to the table, the clink of porcelain punctuating the soft music.
Maya shrugged, a playful glint in her eye. “The meeting ran over. I thought I’d… surprise you.” She flicked her wrist, and a small, sleek package appeared on the coffee table—a new set of brushes she’d picked up for his studio. Reagan’s eyes lit up, his artist’s mind already racing through the possibilities.
He turned on the stove, the blue flame flickering to life, and began chopping vegetables with a rhythmic precision that mirrored his brushwork. The sound of the knife against the cutting board was a metronome, each slice a quiet percussion to the soft jazz playing from the speakers. Maya watched him, her eyes softening at the sight of him in his element, his focus turning from canvas to cuisine. They sat down, the candlelight flickering between them,
They ate slowly, their conversation drifting from the day’s projects to the small, mundane details of life. Maya talked about the client meeting, her voice animated, while Reagan shared the inspiration behind his latest painting—a cityscape that pulsed with neon and rain, much like the night outside. The conversation was punctuated with soft laughter, occasional sighs, and the occasional pause where they simply looked at each other, the world narrowing to the space between them.
When the plates were cleared, Reagan stood, stretching his limbs. “Your turn,” he said with a grin. “I’ve got something else in mind for the rest of the night.”
“Got it,” he replied, sprinkling a pinch of sea salt over a skillet. He tossed in sliced onions, letting them sizzle and caramelize, their golden edges a promise of sweetness. As the aromas deepened, Reagan glanced up, meeting Maya’s gaze. The kitchen lights reflected off his dark hair, and the corners of his mouth lifted in a quiet, intimate smile. “This is amazing
“Hey, love,” she whispered, moving into the doorway. The heat of her body brushed his cheek as she leaned in for a quick kiss—soft, familiar, a reminder of all the mornings they’d begun in the same way.
Maya nestled against him, her head resting on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. Reagan’s hand traced lazy circles on her back, a rhythm that echoed the gentle beat of the music in the background. He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, the taste of bourbon lingering on his lips.
The front door clicked open, and Maya slipped in, her coat still damp from the rain. She shook off a few drops, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she caught sight of Reagan perched on the edge of the couch, a glass of bourbon in hand. The amber liquid caught the light, casting tiny flickers across his face.