She was by the stove, her fair, slender hands skillfully flipping the stir-fry in a wok. The sunlight filtering through the window caught the faint sheen of sweat on her brow, illuminating the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked up and caught my gaze, her lips curving into a smile that could disarm armies.
"You little lazy cat, go wash your hands—it's time to eat," she said.
I stayed where I was, my arms crossed, studying her as if seeing her for the first time. For six years, Alexa had devoted herself to me—or so I'd thought. Every weekend, she would give our housekeeper a day off and personally cook for me, saying it was her way of showing love. Her care, her attentiveness, her unwavering loyalty—they were all a part of the Alexa I knew.
As I watched Alexa bustling around the kitchen, a twinge of guilt tugged at me. I leaned against the doorframe and said, "You don't have to work so hard, you know."
She glanced at me with a playful smile and tapped my nose with her flour-dusted fingers. "Cooking for my darling? That's not work—it's love."