From behind, she looked like a college student, fresh and youthful.

At that moment, she was adding chopped tomatoes to the skillet.

Her movements weren't particularly skilled, and when the hot oil sizzled and splattered, she instinctively flinched, taking a quick step back— only to hurriedly step forward again, grabbing the spatula to stir-fry.

Lyndon's lips curled into a soft smile.

His wife was cooking for him. A rare, warm feeling spread through his chest as he found himself genuinely looking forward to the meal.

After finishing up some work, Lyndon looked up just as Tilda stepped into his office.

"Honey, the pasta is ready. We can eat now," she announced.

Her face slightly flushed from the heat of the kitchen.

Her bright eyes sparkled with satisfaction.

Lyndon smiled, standing up and walking over to her. Before she could say anything, he gently tidied a stray strand of hair from her face.

He teased, "Did you taste it before serving?"

Tilda's gaze flickered as she tilted her head. "Well, if it is a disaster?"

Lyndon chuckled, his gaze unwavering. "Since my wife made it, I'm eating it — no matter how bad it tastes."

Tilda smirked, glancing over at Rita, who was still working in the kitchen.

"Really? No need to suffer, you know. Looks like someone else is whipping up a feast that smells amazing. You could always wait a little longer and enjoy her cooking."

Lyndon Laughed, reaching out to pinch her nose gently.

"Aren't you tired of lavish meals every day? Today, I particularly want your pasta."

His affectionate tone softened Tilda's playful sarcasm, and she rolled her eyes, pulling his hand away.

"Let's see if you still feel that way after tasting it. Once you've finished the pasta, you might just change your mind!" Tilda teased, a playful glimmer in her eyes.

As Lyndon glanced down, he noticed the faint redness on her fingers.

His brows furrowed, and he gently took her hand. "What happened to your hand?"

Tilda blinked at her hand, shrugging casually. "Oh, it's nothing — just a little burn. Now, sit down. I'll bring the pasta over."

But Lyndon didn't let go. He guided her to a chair and gently pushed her down. "Sit still."

“Why? The pasta will get mushy," Tilda protested.