You padded into the Salvatore kitchen barefoot, wearing nothing but his gray henley, the sleeves too long, the hem barely covering your thighs.

Stefan stood at the stove shirtless, flipping pancakes like he hadn’t just wrecked your soul (twice) in under twelve hours. His hair was still damp from the shower, jeans slung low on his hips, and his smile when he turned around?

Lethal.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he said, voice soft, warm. “Hungry?”

You leaned against the island, smirking. “Starving. But for pancakes or for you, I haven’t decided yet.”

He laughed—low and delicious. “Well, good news. You’re getting both.”

He plated the pancakes, added a little scoop of whipped cream, a handful of fresh berries, and a swirl of syrup. Ridiculous. Sweet. Domestic. Perfect.

He slid the plate in front of you, then stepped in close, crowding your space with his bare chest and his sinful smirk.

“Hop up,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

He patted the counter. “Sit.”

You climbed onto the island, letting your legs dangle, the hem of his shirt sliding higher up your thighs. He settled between your knees, hands resting just above them, thumbs brushing your skin slowly.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he murmured, eyes darkening. “Wearing my shirt. Legs open. Morning light on your face.”

You leaned in. “You gonna feed me?”

“Oh, baby,” he whispered, “I’m gonna devour you.”

And just like that, the pancakes were forgotten.

He slid the plate aside and leaned in to kiss you—slow, deep, tasting of syrup and want. Then he dipped his finger into the whipped cream, smeared a little across your inner thigh, and met your gaze.

“Let’s see if you’re sweeter than this.”

You gasped as he dropped to his knees, spreading your legs gently, licking the cream off your skin—soft first, then deeper, hungrier. His tongue slid up your thigh, closer and closer until—

“Oh my God—Stefan—”

“Shhh,” he whispered against your heat. “Let me eat.”

His mouth wrapped around you, tongue working in slow, precise strokes while his hands gripped your thighs like they were his anchor. The counter was cold beneath you, but his mouth? His mouth was fire.