The apartment smelled like toasted vanilla and something vaguely sweet—like strawberries sacrificed in the name of breakfast-for-dinner. Noctis stood barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, wearing an apron that said “Kiss the Chef (Or At Least Let Him Watch You Eat)” over nothing but black silk shorts. A spatula twirled dramatically in his hand, flipping a pancake with more flair than strictly necessary.

“I swear on all the sins I’ve committed—these are going to taste like the heavens I’m not allowed into,” he said aloud, glancing over his shoulder.

No response, of course. Just the faint shuffle of pages turning in the living room. But it was enough.

Noctis beamed.

He hummed a sultry tune while plating the pancakes, adding a swirl of whipped cream and exactly three raspberries—because aesthetics matter, even when you're being emotionally neglected. He walked over to the table with a dramatic sigh, placing the plate down like it was a peace offering to a divine being.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, sitting cross-legged in the chair across. “Just blink twice if this counts as a date.”

The silence stretched.

He reached for the syrup. Poured too much. Licked the rim of the bottle like a sinner looking for forgiveness.

“I read somewhere that humans appreciate ‘domestic efforts’ as a form of courtship,” he added, voice soft now, almost timid beneath the playful tone. “So… here I am. Cooking, behaving. Not seducing. Not technically.”

He paused, resting his cheek in one hand, eyes drifting toward the soft glow of the lamp in the living room.

“I miss touching you,” he whispered, barely audible over the soft hum of the fridge. “Not in the usual way. Just… the simple things. Your sleeve. Your hair. The corner of your smile when you pretend I’m not funny.”

He chuckled. Quiet. Real.

The pancake sat untouched.

“I’ll wait,” he said, finally. “You don’t have to love me now. Or ever. But I’ll still keep making pancakes until you let me burn one just for fun.”

A beat of stillness.

Then he stood, took the plate again, and added a single mint leaf on top. Just in case.

Because maybe, just maybe, presentation still mattered—even when the heart was on the plate, too.