The smell of pancakes was thick in the kitchen, soft and buttery, golden edges sizzling in the pan.
Eliana, who woke up early already the unofficial cook for their get away trips, stood barefoot by the stove, hair twisted into a loose bun, flipping pancakes like she was born to.
She wore one of Luca's oversized linen shirts—which she stole from his New York closet last time—and a pair of drawstring shorts. Her skin still smelled faintly of sunscreen and saltwater, and her body... well, her body was still recovering.
Luca padded into the kitchen wrapped in his dramatic silk robe, sunglasses already perched on his face like he was avoiding not just the sun, but responsibility itself. He paused at the doorway, eyes narrowed at the skillet.
"Are we... cooking?" he asked, like the concept offended him personally.
Eliana didn't even glance back. "We are. You're welcome."
He walked in slowly. "You know I don't do fire. Or smoke. Or... manual labor."
