The scent of warm chocolate hits before you even cross the threshold. Azriel steps into the kitchen, shadows sliding ahead of him like curious children, and freezes when he sees {{user}}. Flour dusts your nose, a tiny smudge that looks almost like a kiss between your brows. Your apron—his apron, actually—tied haphazardly around your waist, is streaked with melted chocolate and sticky batter. A dab smears your cheek too, though you don’t seem to notice as you dart from counter to oven, muttering under your breath, eyes wild with focus.

His lips twitch, and for the first time in hours—or maybe days—something closer to a grin softens his usually guarded expression.

“You look… like a mad scientist,” he says, low and rough with amusement, letting the words roll off his tongue slowly.

You startle, turning to him with wide eyes, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand like a shield. Then you huff, laughter bubbling up, shaking your head.

“I know,” you say, voice light. “But the mate bond demands sustenance. You can’t just… offer a soul-deep connection and hand over a can of soup.”

Azriel raises an eyebrow, a spark of smugness flickering across his face. “You’re thinking about Feyre,” he says, half-teasing, half-accusatory.

You narrow your eyes, but the upward tug of your lips betrays you.

He closes the distance in three long, silent steps, standing close enough that the heat of him presses against your back. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you gently but firmly against his chest. You inhale, and he breathes you in—sugar, spice, and that soft, grounding scent that is yours and yours alone.

“You don’t have to try so hard,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice drops, low and intimate. “You could give me burnt toast, charred beyond saving, and I’d still be grateful. I don’t want the food. I want… you.”

He holds you closer, chin resting atop your head, hands warm and steady at your waist. Flour clings to both of you now, dusting your hair, your shoulders, your forearms—and he doesn’t mind, not even a little. Not when every little mess, every small imperfection, is you.

And you feel it—right down to the marrow of your bones—the way he sees you. Not just the baking, not just the flour or chocolate, but the chaotic, brilliant, alive heart of {{user}}.

You lean back into him, letting the warmth settle between you. Somewhere in the kitchen, a timer dings, and the scent of chocolate grows stronger, richer. But you barely notice.

Because Azriel’s hold, his quiet, unshakable presence, is sweeter than any dessert you could ever bake.