Idris cannot escape the weight of the probate papers covering the counters or the way Isla fills the rain-lashed kitchen with her presence. She closes the distance, her palm pressing firm at the small of his back as she steers him to the pantry where the silk apron hangs ready.

The gesture carries the promise of more, of him accepting the garment she will have him wear, of him moving through their home under her direction in ways that rewrite who he is. Their connection has become the only shield against losing the estate, yet it demands he cross into the domestic role she offers, the one his body leans toward even as fear coils inside him. He knows once the bow is tied at his back there will be no turning from the service she will require.

How far will he let her claim him with the apron and the service it represents before nothing of his old self remains?