64

EZRA

I don’t know who the hell I’ve become, but I’m standing in Thea’s kitchen at 8:17 on a Sunday morning, wearing nothing but grey sweatpants, cooking eggs I don’t even eat. For her.

Why? No bloody clue.

Don't blame me, okay?

She’s upstairs, still asleep—hair all over the pillow like chaos itself, breathing softly like she's never broken a single thing in her life. And me? I’ve turned into a fucking Pin terest user. I even Googled how to fold eggs. Fold. Eggs. As if that’s a thing.

One YouTube tutorial and a scalded fingertip which healed on spot later, I’m watching the pan like it owes me money.

The kitchen smells like butter, something faintly sweet, and the ghost of my pride. There’s a second where I catch my reflection in the microwave—messy hair, stubble, no shirt—and I blink.

Fuck.

They say practice makes perfection but I didn't even try to master how to cook all these centuries. I can't even remember the last time I cooked.

This is how it starts, isn’t it? One minute you’re storming out of meetings and ruining lives for sport, next thing you know, you're shirtless in a woman’s kitchen cooking eggs and wondering if cinnamon on toast is too much.

And the worst part?

I’m not even mad about it.

I glance up toward the stairs when I hear ruffling. Maybe she was turning. When I crept out of bed, she’s still out cold from last night, curled into a ball with that ridiculous throw pillow she pretends not to sleep with.

I didn't sleep last night. After fucking her until she complains of being sleepy and tired, I just lay there, watching her chest rise and fall, like each breath she takes was mine to protect.

I can't even believe I'd one day share the same bed with her. Willingly without any cunning act.

And I crept out of bed earlier because I need something to do before I lose my goddamn mind and touch her again.

I wish I could have this weird domestic hallucination a little longer.

I flip the toast with a flourish I absolutely did not practice and mutter to myself, “If Gordon Ramsay could see me now…”

The toast lands perfectly. The eggs not so much.

Fuck.

“Okay, okay,” I mutter, scraping at the pan like it personally offended me. “I'm getting good at this.”

I slap the food onto a plate, not exactly proud, but not ashamed either. Balanced chaos. Kind of like us.

And then I hear it—the soft sound of the door opening.

She's awake.

I spin around after placing the bacon on the pan, waiting for her to appear. And there she is, standing at the doorway in a pale blue button down shirt, sleep-mussed hair, eyes barely open.

She blinks at me. “Are you… cooking?”

I raise a brow,. sparing the pan a glance. “You sound surprised.”

“Ezra,” she deadpans, “You don't look like chef material.”

“I know.” I say with a shrug. “I'm too hot for that.”

She snorts, dragging herself toward me like sleep is still fighting her for custody. “What’s the occasion?”

I lift the plate. “Wanted to do something nice so you can owe me a favour.” I answer truthfully.

“God,” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes. “You’re weird and you act like the devil sometimes.”

I smirk and lean in close, placing the plate on the counter behind her. “And you like it.”

She tries to hide the smile curling on her lips, but it’s there. Just like the blush on her cheeks.

I lean in a little closer, lips brushing her ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll ruin it later.

She sidesteps me and walks to lean back against the counter, her hip brushing mine a little, and my already thin control thins even further.

She's warm. Thighs bare. Soft. Sleep-heavy.

And standing way too close for a woman wearing only an oversized shirt.

“I should probably shower,” she mumbles, yawning into her fist, the sound far too innocent for the look I’m giving her right now.

“Or,” I say slowly, turning the heat down on the burner before the bacon combusts, “you could let me lick the sleep off you instead.”

She blinks. Blushes harder.

“Oh my God. You shameless bloodsucker.”

I chuckle. She's getting bolder. I love it.

“Just being efficient,” I murmur, nosing the side of her neck, inhaling that maddening scent—vanilla and temptation and mine. “You know. Save water. Save time. Save me from combusting.”

Like the freaking bacon I'd lower the heat for. But the heat can't be lowered for me.

She shivers. “I haven’t even brushed.”

“Don’t care.”

I spin her, caging her between the counter and my body. Her hands flatten against my chest, the shirt slipping off one shoulder. I stare. I always stare. Like she’s art and I’m some obsessed collector who wants to lock her in a vault just to keep her safe.

She tries to squirm past me, breath hitching when my hands land on her hips.

“Ezra—”

“I woke up thinking about your mouth.” My voice is rough now, hungry. “And your little moans. And how you sound when you fall apart on my tongue and on my cock.”

She’s silent.

So I lean in and whisper against her lips, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

She doesn’t.

Instead, her fingers curl into my waistband like they did the night before after we finished arranging her tornado-wrecked living room.

So I lift her onto the counter like she weighs nothing. She gasps, legs instinctively wrapping around me, hands bracing on my shoulders.

“You’re insatiable,” she murmurs.

I grin. “You made me this way.”

Then I drop to my knees.

Because her breakfast can wait for a few minutes.

I need to have mine.

.

.

.

When I stand up, she’s breathless. Flushed. Chest rising and falling like she just ran a marathon. Her legs are still hooked loosely around my waist as I straighten up, brushing a thumb across the corner of her mouth like I’m wiping away proof of something sacred.

Fuck.

I don’t know what the hell this woman is doing to me, but I know I’ve never wanted anyone like this. Not in centuries.

I press my forehead to hers for a moment, grounding myself. Her skin is warm. She smells like sleep and heat and whatever soap she uses that I want to drown in.

“You okay?” I murmur.

She nods slowly, lips still parted, eyes glazed like I’ve short-circuited her system.

Good.

I help her down gently from the counter, her feet touching the floor like she’s relearning how to stand. She leans against me for a second longer than necessary, and I let her. Maybe I need it more than she does.

Then—sizzle.

I freeze.

She gasps and turns to the stove.

“Shit.”

The bacon is black. Not just crispy. Murdered.

“Ezra!” she yelps, grabbing the spatula and waving the pan like she can undo the crime scene. “You burnt the damn bacon!”

“I was distracted,” I offer, not even sorry. I gesture at her legs. “You started it.”

She glares at me but her mouth twitches. “That was your idea, chef-boy.”

“Didn’t hear you complaining when I—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence,” she warns, holding the burnt bacon hostage on the spatula like a weapon. “I swear to God, I will feed this to you.”

I grin, backing away with my hands raised. “You wouldn’t dare.”

She narrows her eyes. “Try me.”

Fuck, I could live in this moment. This messy, burnt, absurd moment where she’s in this shirt and I’m shirtless and we’re fighting about bacon like a normal couple instead of two people with enough trauma to level nations.

“I’ll cook more,” I say.

“Please don’t.”

I laugh, moving closer to her. “You wound me, woman.”

She just shakes her head, muttering something about vampires and ruined breakfasts, but she doesn’t pull away when I wrap my arms around her from behind.

Instead, she leans into me.

And that’s when I know—

Burnt bacon or not... I could burn a thousand breakfasts if it means mornings like this.

With her.