God help me.

You’re standing at the stove— Soft music playing, apron wrapped around your waist, humming like it’s any ordinary evening.

But nothing about you is ordinary.

Your hair’s falling over your shoulders just right. Your fingers move with that practiced little flick as you stir the pan. And I swear, if you sway those hips one more time, I’m going to burn this house down.

So I move closer. Just behind you. Arms sliding around your waist. Chin resting on your shoulder.

“Smells good,” I murmur against your skin.

You lean slightly into me, and just like that— My lips find your neck.

One kiss. Then another. Slow. Lazy. Addictive.

You flinch, laughing breathlessly. “Damien, I’m cooking.”

“And I’m starving,” I whisper, nipping playfully at your earlobe. “But not for dinner.”

Below us, Lila’s clinging to your leg, whining like we’re torturing her with our existence.

“Daddyyyy,” she groans. “You always kissing Mommy. She can’t cook wif your face on her!”

I smirk, kissing your cheek. “She can multitask.”

You elbow me lightly, cheeks flushed. “You’re going to make me burn this.”

I turn you in my arms before you can protest— Hand at your lower back, the other sliding to your neck. And I dip you right there, next to the stovetop. Just enough to make you gasp.

And I kiss you like you’re the only thing keeping me alive.

Your fingers curl around my shirt.

Lila huffs behind us. “Y’all so gwoss.”

I pull back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes. “Dinner can wait,” I whisper.

You try to speak—blushing, breathless—but I hush you with another soft kiss to your lips.

“You’re the one getting me hungry, angel,” I murmur.

And this time? You don’t argue.