He shook his head, chuckling, but leaned closer until his face was just inches from hers. "If you want me in your kitchen every morning, Seraphina, all you have to do is ask nicely."

Her breath caught for a moment. Then she smirked, slid the fork past his lips, and let him taste his own creation. "Then consider this my first request."

Xavier chewed slowly, eyes never leaving hers, and when he swallowed, he said lowly, "Request granted."

The air between them thickened again—not the fiery heat of the morning, but something more intimate, tender. The kitchen was quiet save for the gentle crackle of the fire and the faint clink of the fork against porcelain.

The omelette gleamed golden under the morning light pouring through the windows, untouched halves waiting for them to finish together.

And just as Seraphina set down her fork, Xavier's hand brushed over hers, steady, claiming.

"Eat," Xavier said softly, his hand brushing hers. "Then we'll see what else today brings."

And eat they did.

The first omelette vanished quickly, each bite vanishing under soft laughter and teasing remarks. Seraphina, who usually ate with dignified restraint, found herself savoring shamelessly—fork sliding eagerly through the golden folds, licking a stray bit of melted cheese from the corner of her lip, eyes half-closing with each taste.

Xavier watched her like a hunter watching prey, though the only strike he made was to steal the fork once and take a mouthful himself, smirking when she slapped his arm.

When the last morsel disappeared, she sighed softly, patting her lips with a napkin, eyes shining. "It feels cruel that something so perfect ends so quickly."

Xavier chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "Then let's fix that. More eggs, bigger omelette."

Her brows lifted in mock-seriousness. "A larger masterpiece, then?"

"Exactly." He moved to gather more ingredients, selecting twice the eggs this time. His hands worked smoothly, confident now. But before he could start, Seraphina's voice cut in—low, almost stubborn.

"Wait."

He looked over his shoulder. She stood with arms crossed, chin lifted slightly, but there was a glint in her eyes he hadn't seen in the kitchen before. "I don't want to just sit here while you work. I want to help."

Xavier tilted his head, amused. "You? In the kitchen?"

"Yes, me," she said, a little defensive. "Do you think I'm incapable of holding a knife?"

He grinned wickedly. "Honestly? Yes."

Her cheeks flushed, half from indignation, half from the intimacy in his gaze. She stepped closer, lowering her arms. "Then prove me wrong. Teach me."

He set down the eggs, straightening slowly. "Careful, Seraphina. Once you start cooking with me, I won't let you back out."

She smirked despite her blush. "Then don't let me back out."

He handed her a knife first. A small one, sharp but manageable. She held it like it was ceremonial silverware, delicate and precise.

"No, no," Xavier chuckled, stepping behind her. His chest pressed lightly to her back as he reached around, guiding her hand. "You're not dissecting it like a court scholar. Hold firm—like this."

Her breath hitched when his fingers closed around hers, adjusting the grip, his voice low by her ear. "Good. Now slice. Steady pressure. Don't be afraid of the blade."

She moved carefully, guided by his touch, cutting a line through a tomato. The slice wasn't perfect—slanted, uneven—but it didn't matter.

He murmured against her ear, "Not bad for a first cut. Try again."

Seraphina's lips curved. She leaned back slightly against his chest, more aware of his warmth than the knife in her hand. "Am I being graded?"

"Yes." His hand slid from her fingers to her waist. "But don't worry. I grade on a curve."

She laughed softly, shaking her head, but her next slice was better.

They worked together, though Xavier carried most of the precision. She cracked eggs, giggling when the first shell shattered in her palm and spilled yolk down her fingers. He caught her wrist before she could wipe it on her gown, lifting her hand and licking the stray yolk clean off her skin.

Seraphina froze, eyes wide, heat rushing up her neck. "You—!"

"Waste not, want not," he said with a grin, releasing her hand as if nothing unusual had happened.

She swatted at him, but her smile betrayed her.

By the time the mixture was ready, her cheeks were flushed—not just from the heat of the stove, but from his constant teasing. Every correction was an excuse to touch: guiding her wrist, steadying her elbow, brushing stray hair from her cheek.

When the pan sizzled again and the aroma began to rise—thicker now, richer, even more mouthwatering—Seraphina leaned against the counter, watching the golden fold take shape.

"This is different," she murmured.

Xavier glanced at her. "The recipe?"

"No." She shook her head, eyes lingering on his hands moving with ease over fire and steel. "You. This. All of it. You're not just a guard… and not just—" she hesitated, then smirked faintly, "—what you were to me before. You're… everywhere."

His movements slowed, just for a second, at the honesty in her voice. Then he slid the omelette onto a plate, turning toward her with a crooked smile.

"Then I guess I'd better make sure everywhere tastes this good."

She rolled her eyes but blushed all the same, biting her lip as she looked down at the steaming dish.

He cut a portion, lifted it with the fork, and held it toward her lips. "Go on. Judge me."

Seraphina arched a brow, lips parting. She leaned forward, wrapping her mouth around the bite. Warmth, flavor, perfection spread across her tongue, and her lashes fluttered briefly as a pleased sound escaped her throat.

When she swallowed, she whispered, "I think you've ruined me, Xavier."

"Oh?" His smirk widened. "How so?"

"No chef will ever compare." She took the fork from his hand, lifting another bite herself. "From now on, you're doomed to feed me."

"Doomed?" He chuckled, leaning in close. "I can live with that sentence."

The kitchen smelled of butter and herbs, the plate gleamed golden, and the air between them was thick with something richer than even the food.

And as they stood there—noblewoman and her guard, cook and taste-tester, lovers disguised as conspirators—the door creaked faintly. A servant peeked in, drawn again by the smell, only to retreat instantly when Seraphina's cool gaze flicked toward her.

"Back to work," she ordered smoothly, her voice betraying nothing of the warmth in her cheeks.

The door closed. Silence returned.

And Xavier reached for another egg.

"Shall we make one more?" Xavier asked, his voice low, teasing, a glint of mischief dancing in his eyes.

Seraphina leaned into him, her silver hair brushing his cheek, her smirk sharp but playful. "Only if you let me crack it and do it myself."

Xavier lifted his hands in mock surrender, stepping back toward the counter. "Very well, my lady. The kitchen is yours. Let's see what a noble's hands can do without her guard's guidance."

Her gaze narrowed. "You sound far too confident I'll fail."

"Not fail," he corrected, leaning casually against the table, arms crossed. "Just… amuse me."

Seraphina huffed but her lips curved, betraying her amusement. She strode to the basket of eggs, took one with deliberate grace, and held it up like a challenge. "Watch closely, Xavier. I'll show you I'm not just a spectator."

The first egg cracked a little too sharply against the rim of the pan, half the shell sticking stubbornly to her fingers.

Xavier chuckled softly. "Elegant, as always."

She shot him a glare over her shoulder, then shook the shell free with a flick of her wrist. "That was intentional. More flair."

"Of course," he murmured, smirking. "Theatrics are important."

The second egg was smoother, the yolk slipping clean into the bowl. She gave him a triumphant look. "See? Perfection."

"Mm." He tilted his head, pretending to evaluate. "One decent crack doesn't make you a chef."

Seraphina turned back to the bowl, whisking the eggs with a determination that made her hair sway with each motion. "Then I'll prove you wrong."

The kitchen filled again with the soft whisk of eggs, the sizzle of butter melting in the pan. Seraphina sprinkled in herbs with a careful hand, her brows furrowed in concentration. Xavier found himself watching more than the food—her steady posture, the way her lips pressed together when she focused, the faint flush rising in her cheeks from the heat of the stove.

"You're staring," she said without looking at him.

"Am I?"

"Yes." She glanced back briefly, her smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "It's distracting."

"Good," he said simply.

Her hand trembled slightly as she turned the omelette, and she muttered something under her breath that made Xavier laugh.

When she finally slid the omelette onto a plate, her pride was evident. The fold wasn't perfect, but it gleamed golden, steam rising, and the aroma was rich enough to make any servant outside the door salivate.

Seraphina set it down before him with a flourish. "There. My creation."

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