If someone had told me a few months ago that I’d wake up to the sound of Roman Langston humming in the kitchen — barefoot, hair tousled, wearing nothing but a white T-shirt and gray sweatpants — I would’ve laughed in disbelief.

Yet here I was, sitting cross-legged on a stool at the kitchen island, watching him flip pancakes like it was an art form.

Sunlight spilled through the tall windows of the villa, painting golden patterns on the marble floors. The place still smelled faintly of ...