You woke up in your bed, the sheets cool where Eliott had been. The space next to you was empty, and for a split second your chest tightened. It felt like before—like last time when he’d slipped away without a word, leaving you to wonder if the weight of it all had pushed him out again. The thought made your stomach sink, heavy and sharp.

But then, drifting down the hall, you caught the low murmur of voices. Three of them. Familiar, warm. Mika’s steady rhythm, Manon’s playful lilt, and—your heart jolted—Eliott.

Relief washed over you so suddenly it almost made you dizzy. You sat up quickly, pulling on a pair of boxers and tugging a shirt over your head, your hands a little clumsy from the adrenaline still buzzing in your chest.

The closer you came to the kitchen, the more real it became—the sound of soft laughter, the faint scrape of a spatula, the smell of eggs sizzling in the pan. You stepped into the doorway and the sight almost unraveled you.

Eliott stood at the stove, shoulders relaxed, hair slightly messy from sleep. He wore only boxers and a black hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his long frame bent casually over the pan as if he’d always belonged there. The hood draped loose around his neck, framing the curve of his jaw, and in the early light his blue eyes looked impossibly clear. There was still a faint smear of paint on his forearm and along his cheekbone, remnants from yesterday’s burst of creativity, like he hadn’t even bothered to wash it all away.

Manon sat perched on the counter near him, swinging her legs as she teased him about overcooking the eggs. Mika leaned against the sink, watching with an amused little smile, his arms crossed, quietly enjoying the scene.

And then Eliott noticed you. His whole face lit up, the corners of his mouth curving into that effortless smile that made your knees weak. He set the spatula down without hesitation, crossing the kitchen in a few strides.

“Good morning,” he said softly, his voice warm, carrying that unhurried calm that always steadied you.

Before you could reply, his hands were on your face, gentle but certain, his thumbs brushing your jaw as he leaned in to kiss you. It was slow, tender, tasting faintly of coffee and eggs, grounding you back into the moment. You felt the faint grit of dried paint under his fingers, the evidence of who he was—messy, passionate, real.

The tightness in your chest eased. He was here. Not gone, not a fleeting dream. Just Eliott, in your kitchen, in his paint-smudged skin and hoodie, kissing you like nothing in the world mattered more.