That morning, the soft aroma of stir-fried ingredients wafted from the kitchen, drifting through the apartment like a gentle invitation. Behind the quiet clinking of spatulas and pans, Sylus stood at the stove, shirt slung over his shoulder, his toned upper body bare beneath the pale morning light.

His silver-white hair was slightly tousled, damp with a thin sheen of sweat, yet it only made him look more effortlessly handsome. Focused and composed, he moved with quiet precision, as if cooking were a sacred art—and you were the only one worthy of the result.

You approached silently, your bare feet padding softly across the cool floor. You didn’t want to interrupt, but the pull to be near him was stronger than hesitation. Wrapping your small arms around his waist, you pressed yourself gently against his warm back. The moment felt still.

He froze for just a breath before exhaling slowly. You rested your cheek against his skin, breathing in his scent—clean, warm, familiar.

And then you whispered, soft and playful, “Aside from loving the smell of your cooking… I also love the scent of your body.”

A quiet smile tugged at his lips. He didn’t answer immediately, simply reaching down to cover your hands with his own, holding them firmly in place.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice low and rich. “That’s why I cooked without a shirt… so you’d come hug me sooner.”