Chapter Five: Burn Toast and Mixed Signals

=Damien's POV=

Cooking wasn’t my thing.

I closed mergers before I learned how to flip a sandwich. My hands knew the weight of contracts, not kitchen knives. But that morning, there I was—standing in my kitchen in a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled, trying to make something edible out of two slices of bread and half-melted cheddar.

And for what?

For her.

Seraphina Elise Navarro—my wife by contract, partner by circumstance. And yet, she had a way of making me want to try, even when I didn’t understand why.

Is this the effort she wanted?

I pulled two slices of bread from the bag—uneven. Whatever. I spread the butter, thicker than it should be, but I figured more butter meant less chance of failure.

The pan hissed as I placed the sandwich down. That familiar sizzle gave me an odd sense of control. Strange, how this simple act felt more intimate than anything else we’d done lately.

Flip. Slightly burnt on one side. Noted. I turned down the heat.

The smell drifted through the air—comforting, warm, real.

I cut the sandwich in half. Cheese oozed from the middle. Not perfect, but heartfelt.

Then I heard her footsteps.

She padded into the kitchen, wearing my hoodie again—sleeves too long, eyes still sleepy, hair tousled from bed. She looked... at home. Like she belonged here, even when everything between us was staged.

“Grabe,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You cook? Parang hindi naman mala-Damien Vale 'to.”

I smirked. “Try not to die from shock.”

She peeked over my shoulder to look at the sandwich and sniff.

“Amoy sunog.”

“Love language ko ‘yan,” I said dryly.

She laughed, that small, rare kind. The one she didn’t give away easily.

“What’s the occasion?” she asked, more curious than teasing now.

I hesitated for a beat, then placed the plate in front of her on the counter.

“No occasion. I just… wanted to do something without scripts. No photographers, no PR team. Just this. Just once”

She stared at the sandwich, then back at me.

“Para sa’kin ‘to?”

“Wala namang ibang tao dito, ‘di ba?” I said.

She picked it up carefully, took a bite.

“Mainit,” she mumbled, mouth full. “Pero masarap. Medyo sunog, pero—effort counts.”

One point for Damien Alistair Vale.

“Wow. High praise,” I said, sarcastically.

She chuckled again. Then, quieter, “Thanks.”

I leaned against the counter, watching her eat. No cameras. No audience. Just us in this temporary domestic illusion.

And for a moment, it didn’t feel fake.

Not at all.

She was still in my hoodie. Barefoot. Holding the last bite of her sandwich like she wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment.

I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching her.

“You know,” I said, “I’ve seen you in couture gowns, dripping in diamonds, storming boardrooms. But you’ve never looked more powerful than you do right now—with crumbs on your lip and no armor on.”

She blinked at me, caught off-guard. “Ang lalim mo ngayon ah. May nalagay ka bang inspirational quote sa sandwich ko?”

I chuckled, stepping closer. “No. Just butter.”

She smiled, small but honest.

Then I reached out, brushing my thumb gently over the corner of her mouth—removing a fleck of bread. She stilled.

Neither of us spoke.

My hand didn’t move away.

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching mine. The distance between us was shrinking again—only this time, neither of us tried to stop it.

“Damien…” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Hmm?”

“Bakit parang… parang hindi na fake ‘to?”

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I cupped her face gently, my other hand bracing on the counter beside her. She didn’t step back. She didn’t push me away.

And when I leaned in—slow, deliberate—she met me halfway.

The kiss was soft at first. Careful. Testing.

But it deepened fast.

Her fingers curled into my shirt, pulling me closer, and mine found her waist—holding her like I’d wanted to from the moment I saw her in this kitchen. No audience. No cameras. No contract.

Just her.

Just me.

Just us.

I lifted her slightly, letting her sit on the counter, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. She gasped softly against my mouth—surprised, but not resisting.

“Damien…” she breathed again, eyes fluttering open.

“Tell me to stop,” I said, resting my forehead against hers. “I will. Just say it.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she whispered, “Ayoko ng peke.”

“Neither do I.”

And that was all it took.

Her fingers tangled in my hair, pulling me back in—and this time, there was no hesitation.

The kitchen, the sandwich, the quiet morning—they all faded.

What we had now was fire.

Controlled at first. But slowly, undeniably spreading.

And I didn’t want to put it out.