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The kitchen smelled like smoke and regret.
Lazy spirals of it curled toward the ceiling, thin wisps of burnt eggs and failed intentions hanging in the air like a quiet accusation. The pan on the stove hissed in protest, its contents unrecognizable, an omelet-turned-tragedy sizzling into a blackened mess. The countertop bore the remnants of your attempt—broken eggshells, spilled flour, a toppled carton of milk forming a slow-moving puddle near the edge.
And in the center of it all stood you, spatula in hand, frozen as if sheer willpower could undo the disaster.
Behind you, leaning against the doorway, was Caleb.
Barefoot, dressed in sleep-soft pajama pants and a loose-fitting blue shirt, he looked completely at ease, as if he had expected this outcome the moment he heard you rustling around in the kitchen. His arms were crossed, muscles shifting beneath golden skin, and his violet eyes flickered with something unreadable—scrutiny at first, then barely restrained amusement.
The silence stretched long enough to be unbearable.
Then—he laughed.
A deep, rich sound, full-bodied and effortless, slipping past his lips like it had been waiting to break free. It was the kind of laugh that warmed the air, that made something inside you loosen despite your frustration.
“Tch—damn, Pipsqueak.” His smirk was devastating, all lazy indulgence. “Didn’t think it was possible to murder an egg this badly.”
You groaned, dropping the spatula onto the stove with a clatter. “I was trying to do something nice.”
“For me or the fire department?”
Your eyes narrowed, and without thinking, you grabbed a dishtowel and threw it at him. Caleb stopped it mid-air with his Gravity Evol, with the same casual ease he did everything, still grinning, still infuriatingly amused.
“Oh, shut up, Caleb. If you’re such a food critic, why don’t you do it yourself?”
His chuckle was quiet this time, but no less smug. He pushed off the doorway, slow and unhurried, closing the space between you in just a few strides.
The teasing glint in his gaze softened as he took in the flour on your hands, the way your hair had slipped messily from its hold, the determined set of your mouth even in failure.
“You want me to take over?” His voice dipped, smooth as silk, a slow pull of warmth against your skin. “Or should I let you finish burning the place down first?”
You were about to snap back, but then his arms slipped around you from behind.
Your breath caught.
One of his hands found yours, fingers curling over the spatula, while the other settled at your waist—light, unhurried, like it belonged there. His firm chest pressed lightly against your back, his comforting heat radiating through the thin fabric of your sleep shirt. The scent of him—clean, familiar, Caleb —wrapped around you, all warmth and quiet steadiness. His breath skimmed your temple, teasing at the sensitive skin near your ear.
“Here.” His voice was lower now, softer. Steady. “Let me show you.”
He guided your hand with effortless ease, cracking an egg into a fresh pan. The shell split cleanly, the yolk settling into place with a soft sizzle.
“See?” His lips brushed—just barely—against your temple. “Easy.”
Your fingers trembled slightly beneath his, but not because of the cooking.
“You’re supposed to be helping,” you murmured, barely able to focus. “Not distracting me.”
Caleb chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “What? Can’t handle a little multitasking?”
You turned your head slightly—just enough for your eyes to meet, inches apart, the space between you crackling with something deeper.
The teasing softened. The world slowed.
His violet gaze flickered down to your lips, lingering—waiting.
And then, he kissed you.
Soft at first, teasing, lips barely brushing yours before deepening, stealing your breath, stealing everything. His fingers curled at your waist, pulling you closer, holding you like you were something to be savored. The warmth of his mouth, the slow drag of his lips against yours—it was intoxicating, dizzying. Caleb kissed you like time had no hold on him, like you were the only thing he’d ever hunger for.
By the time he pulled away, you were breathless.
Caleb smirked, thumb grazing your bottom lip, violet eyes dark with something that sent heat curling low in your stomach.
“Guess we’ll burn breakfast together, then.”
You exhaled a breathless laugh, forehead tipping forward until it rested against his chest, the steady drum of his heartbeat a quiet comfort.
“Yeah,” you murmured, smiling against the fabric of his shirt. “I think I’m okay with that.”
But Caleb didn’t let go.
Instead, he slid his arms around your waist more securely, holding you there like he wasn’t quite ready to step away from this warmth, this quiet moment, this version of morning that belonged to just the two of you.
“Next time,” he murmured against your hair, voice softer now, “wake me up first.”
You tilted your head up, brow arching. “What, so you can do all the cooking?”
Caleb huffed a small laugh, his lips grazing your forehead. “So I can be in here with you.”
Something in your chest tightened at that.
It was such a simple thing to say, but the way he said it—low, quiet, full of something unshakable—made warmth flood through you, your heart squeezing in your chest.
And suddenly, it didn’t matter that the kitchen was a mess. It didn’t matter that the air still smelled faintly of burnt eggs or that your attempt at breakfast had been an absolute disaster.
Because Caleb was here. And he didn’t need perfection—he never had.
Just you. Just this.
You reached up, brushing a flour-dusted thumb against his cheek, smiling when his eyes softened, when his hands instinctively tightened around your waist, like holding you closer was second nature.
“Well,” you teased, “since you’re so good at cooking, I guess you can handle breakfast while I sit back and watch.”
Caleb smirked. “That so?”
“Mhm.” You turned back toward the stove, feigning innocence. “You did say you wanted to be in here with me, right?”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he reached around you to take control of the pan. But before he started, before he let the moment pass completely, he leaned in again—this time pressing a lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, slow and deliberate, just to feel you shiver beneath his lips.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice like honey, thick with something that made your heart stutter.
“I really, really do.”
And just like that, you knew—ruined meal or not—this morning was already perfect. Because no matter how many dishes you ruined, no matter how much smoke filled the air, the taste of Caleb’s love was the only thing you’d ever need.