twentytwo
Aaliyah's POV
When I finally peel myself out of bed, the apartment smells amazing.
Warm butter.
Eggs.
A hint of something spicy and citrusy.
Soft music playing low in the background.
I pull Leo's shirt tighter around me-it falls mid-thigh-warm, oversized, smelling like him.
The living room is a soft golden glow.
Sunlight pouring through the blinds.
Candles still half-melted from last night.
And then I see him.
In the kitchen.
Shirtless.
Barefoot.
Hair messy.
Back muscles flexing as he flips something in a skillet.
I nearly die.
Actually die.
He glances over his shoulder the second he senses me-
because of course he does-
and his eyes rake over me in slow motion.
I feel it all the way down my spine.
"Morning," he says, voice low, sleep-rough.
My throat dries. "Hi."
He gives me a slow once-over.
From my bare legs
to his shirt hanging off my shoulder
to my swollen lips
to my flushed cheeks.
His jaw clenches-like he's trying very, very hard to behave.
"You hungry?" he asks.
I choke. "For... breakfast?"
The pan sizzles.
He smirks.
"Sure," he murmurs. "Breakfast."
My knees go weak.
?
I walk closer, bare feet padding soft on the wood floor.
He watches every single step I take.
Like I'm a full meal and a half.
He's making chilaquiles-fresh tortillas, eggs, salsa, queso fresco-moving around the kitchen with this calm, controlled precision.
Like he's done this a thousand times.
Like he's used to taking care of people.
Or maybe he just wants to take care of me.
He reaches up into the cabinet for a plate, shoulder flexing, back muscles shifting-
I grip the counter to stay upright.
He notices.
"Careful," he teases. "Floor's not that slippery."
I glare. "Oh my god."
He laughs-soft, warm, the kind of sound that makes my chest ache.
Then he nods to the counter.
"Sit."
I blink. "Sit... where?"
He pats the counter next to the stove.
I hesitate.
He raises an eyebrow, smirking.
"Come here."
Something in his voice-low, gentle, commanding-makes my pulse spike.
He helps me up onto the counter.
The cold surface meets the back of my thighs.
His eyes flick down.
Oh.
He definitely sees everything.
His breath catches just a little.
"You good?" he murmurs.
"Yeah," I whisper, absolutely lying.
"Sure?" he teases.
"No."
He lets out another soft laugh, then moves closer, standing between my knees like it's the most natural thing in the world.
My heart stops.
"Leo..."
He lifts a hand, brushing a curl behind my ear.
"You look beautiful," he says quietly. "Like this."
"Like what?" I whisper.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning my face, my neck, the oversized shirt, the way I'm fidgeting with the hem.
"Like you just woke up in my bed."
My breath leaves my body.
He sees my reaction-
the way my thighs press together without permission-
and his eyes darken, slow and deliberate.
"Don't do that," he mutters.
"Do what?"
His voice drops lower.
"That."
I swallow. "Be specific."
He steps even closer-so close I can feel his heat through the shirt I'm wearing.
"When you look at me like that," he murmurs, "I forget I'm supposed to be making breakfast."
My chest combusts.
"Leo..."
He cups my jaw gently, thumb tracing my cheek.
I melt into it.
But then-
He kisses me.
Soft at first.
Then deeper.
My hands slide up his chest-warm skin, solid muscle, heartbeat pounding under my palm.
He groans-quiet and low into my mouth, a sound that sends heat all the way down my spine.
His fingers clutch the back of my thigh, pulling me a fraction closer.
Everything inside me sparks.
His lips move against mine-slow, intoxicating, reverent-like he's savoring me.
He whispers against my mouth:
I shiver.
"Leo-"
"I still want more," he breathes, kissing me again.
"But if I start something now, we're not eating."
My face flushes violently.
He smirks, brushing another kiss to my jaw.
"You're adorable when you're flustered."
I hide my face in his neck.
He laughs softly, wrapping an arm around my waist to stabilize me on the counter.
"You want your food now," he murmurs, "or should I keep distracting you?"
I whisper into his skin:
"Distract."
He freezes.
Hand tightening on my thigh.
Chest rising in a slow, dangerous breath.
"Aaliyah," he whispers, voice dark, "don't say things you don't mean."
"I mean it."
He groans-low, wrecked-and presses his forehead to my collarbone, breathing like he's trying not to lose control completely.
"Let me feed you first," he finally says, voice unsteady.
"Then I'll think about ruining your morning."
Oh.
OH.
My whole body buzzes.
He kisses my shoulder-soft and slow.
Then he pulls back, eyes warm and hungry, and turns to finish breakfast.
And I sit there on the counter, legs dangling, wearing his shirt-
Watching him cook for me, shirtless, humming under his breath, glancing at me every thirty seconds like he can't believe I'm real.
And I realize:
I'm in trouble.
Because mornings like this?
Soft.
Warm.
Domestic.
Full of tension and tenderness-
I could get addicted.