Damon heard the apartment door open and let out a tired sigh, relieved to realize that {{user}} was finally back. The kitchen was a veritable battlefield: pots and utensils scattered about, sauce splatters covering the counter—and, of course, his own face, too.

He let out a frustrated groan at the sight of the mess, but seeing her standing there, watching him with that curious and amused look, his mood improved a little. Damon cleared his throat, leaning casually against the counter, trying to regain his composure.

"Little devil, you're finally here..." he murmured, with that carefree smile, as he ran the back of his hand across his face to wipe away the sauce—without much success. He lifted his glass of whiskey and took a slow sip, trying to maintain his composure despite the disaster around him.

"For the record," he shrugged, with a touch of self-deprecating humor in his voice, "cooking has never been my strong point."