Aria's POV
I woke to the smell of burning toast and the sound of Damien cursing creatively in the kitchen. Sunlight streamed through the windows, warm and golden, and for a moment I just lay there, wrapped in his sheets, smiling at the ceiling.
This. This was happiness. I pulled on one of his shirts—a soft gray button-down that fell to mid-thigh—and padded barefoot to the kitchen.
The scene that greeted me was both endearing and slightly alarming. Damien stood shirtless in pajama pants, frowning at a pan full of what might have once been eggs but now resembled rubber. Smoke drifted from the toaster, and there was flour everywhere, including in his hair.
"What are you doing?" I leaned against the doorframe, biting back a laugh.
He spun around, looking adorably flustered. "Making you breakfast. Or trying to, why is cooking so hard?"
"Because you're terrible at it?" I moved into the kitchen, assessing the damage. "Damien, we have a chef. We could have just ordered something."
