The scent of warm chocolate hits him before he even crosses the threshold. Azriel steps into the kitchen, shadows slipping ahead of him like curious children, and freezes when he sees you. Flour dusts your nose, a smudge like a kiss just between your brows. Your apron—his apron, actually—tied haphazardly around your waist, is streaked with melted chocolate and batter. There’s a smear on your cheek too, though you don’t seem to notice as you rush from counter to oven, muttering to yourself, eyes wild with focus.

His lips twitch, then curl into something closer to a grin than he usually allows.

“You look like a madwoman,” he says, voice low and rough with amusement.

You startle, turning to him with wide eyes, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand like a weapon. Then you huff, laughing under your breath.

“I know. But the mate bond requires food. You can’t just... offer a soul-deep connection and then hand over a can of soup.”

Azriel raises a brow, and something smug flickers in his expression. “You’re thinking about Feyre.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but your smile gives you away.

He crosses the kitchen in three steps, crowding in behind you. His arms loop around your waist, pulling you back against his chest, and he breathes you in—sugar and spice and that soft, grounding scent that’s unmistakably yours.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You could give me a piece of burnt toast and I’d still be grateful. I don’t want the food. I want you.”

He holds you close, resting his chin atop your head, breathing in the scent of you. Flour clings to both of you now, and he doesn’t mind, not even a little.