Page 94 of This Life of Mine

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Not a flinch. A memory.

“A life experience changed my perspective,” he says simply. “The experience demonstrated that pursuing business solely for profit lacks humility.”

I don’t press. I can tell this isn’t avoidance—it’s a boundary.

Instead, I nod. “I see, and it makes sense.”

He glances at me. “It does?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Some people chase careers. Others chase answers. You seem like the second kind.”

Something unreadable passes through his eyes. He exhales, faintly amused.

“Careful,” he says. “You’re far too observant.”

I smile. “Meh…maybe better than most.”

“Social media isn’t a great idea for someone like me,” he says gently. “I spend my life digging into other people’s business. That creates attention I don’t need.”

He explains it without defensiveness—something he decided a long time ago and never questioned afterward.

“It gives people a direct line to where I am, who I’m with, what I care about. That kind of access can be used as leverage.” There’s no paranoia in his voice—rather, awareness.

“So I keep my life private,” he finishes. “Because it’s safer.”

The inflection in his voice—calm, deliberate.

I let the silence sit for a moment, a quiet understanding that whatever pulled him from boardrooms to forensics wasn’t small—and whatever it was, it shaped the man standing in my kitchen now.

And somehow—

That makes me trust him more.

“The food smells amazing,” I say, breaking the quiet.

He returns a smile, but this one is different—slower, softer, like it catches him off guard. “Smells like home.”

Something long buried stirs.

I nod, inhaling deeply. Garlic, olive oil, warm bread—simple things, but they carry weight. Food has always been like that. A shortcut to another time. Another place. Another version of yourself.

“My mom used to say,” I admit quietly. “Food remembers things we tend to forget.”

He glances at me, briefly, like he’s cataloging the confession without needing to comment on it.

“I think that’s why I love baking,” I continue. “It’s predictable in a way life isn’t. You follow the steps. You respect the process. And if you do it right, you get something warm at the end that people gather around.”

Something familiar flickers in his eyes. Agreement, maybe. Or recognition.

“Home doesn’t have to be a place,” he says after a moment. “Sometimes it’s a feeling you didn’t know you were missing.”

I swallow, surprised by how much that lands.

“Yeah,” I say.

A comfortable lull fills the room while the chicken simmers on the stove, warming the air with the scent of garlic, herbs, and butter. Time seems to slow to the gentle rhythm of bubbling sauce and clinking utensils.

Alex wipes his hands on a towel, checks the pan, and leans casually against the counter. The movement is easy, practiced. Comfortable. Like this—being here, cooking dinner, sharing space with someone he cares about—is completely ordinary.