The morning light washed over the city like a quiet confession.
Damian stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled, cracking eggs with one hand while texting with the other. He wasn’t a man of domestic habits—but that morning, he tried. For her. For them.
Elira entered in one of his shirts, barefoot, hair unbrushed, and eyes softer than he’d ever seen.
“You’re cooking,” she said, her voice still husky with sleep.
“I figured it was time Cassian believed I could do more than bark orders and burn toast.”
She walked up behind him, resting her chin between his shoulder blades.
He tensed.
Not because he didn’t like it.
Because he liked it too much.
“You scared me,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“You could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t.”
She turned him around, hand on his chest. “Neither did yo
