It was 6:03 a.m. when Julian woke to the scent of paint and cinnamon.
He blinked through sleep, still adjusting to waking up in a bed that didn’t overlook Manhattan’s skyline. Now, the view was simpler: sunlight streaming across stacks of art books, cracked-open sketch pads, and Sienna curled beside him, one arm flung across his chest.
She stirred as he moved. “Don’t get up yet,” she mumbled.
“I’m not,” he said softly, smiling. “But the cinnamon’s burning.”
Her eyes flew open.
Sienna bolted upright, bolted for the kitchen, and returned minutes later with smoke trailing from a tray of ruined breakfast rolls.
Julian sat up laughing. “That’s the second time this week.”
“I’m trying to be the domestic one for once,” she grumbled.
“Let’s both accept we’re better at ordering in.”
She flo
