She turned away to check the oven, trying to hide her blush, but he stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel his breath near her ear.
His hand reached forward slowly — not rough or demanding like before — and brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face.
"You get flour everywhere," he said quietly, his tone teasing but gentler than usual. "Even in your hair."
Her heart skipped. "Maybe you should stop throwing it at me then."
He made a small sound — something between amusement and disbelief — then reached up again, gathering her hair loosely in his hand to tie it back with the ribbon that had fallen from her wrist.
"Stay still," he murmured. "You look like a mess."
She stood still, her breathing shallow as he tied her hair neatly, his fingers brushing against her neck for a second too long.
When he finished, he let her hair fall softly against her back. "There," he said quietly. "Now you look like my little chef."
She turned, trying to glare at him but couldn't stop smiling. "You're impossible."
He leaned one hand on the counter beside her, eyes glinting. "And yet, you're still here, cupcake."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide her smile this time. "Only because of the pie."
--
The pie sat between them on the counter, steam still curling softly from the golden crust.
Elena cut a piece carefully, her fingers trembling just a little. Damian watched her every move, that small smirk still ghosting his lips.
She lifted a bite to her mouth, tasting it first. Her eyes widened.
"It's… actually good," she said, surprised.
He raised a brow, amused. "Actually? I'll take that as a compliment."
"Don't get too proud," she teased. "Maybe it's good because I helped."
He chuckled, taking a piece for himself and tasting it. For a moment he didn't say a word, then he looked at her with mock seriousness.
"You might be right. It's better because you touched it."
She blushed instantly. "That's not what I meant."
He laughed under his breath, the sound warm and low. "I know."
When they both finished their bites, she held out her hand to him playfully. "Handshake, chef to chef."
He stared at her hand for a second before taking it, his palm large and warm around hers. Instead of shaking once and letting go he held it longer — his thumb brushing lightly over her fingers.
"Are we still shaking hands?" she asked, voice suddenly quiet.
He didn't answer. His gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. Slowly, he lifted her hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it.
The gesture was small, simple — yet her heart thudded so loudly she could hear it.
"Damian…" she whispered, unsure of what to do with the sudden closeness.
He met her gaze, his voice low and teasing. "You're blushing again, cupcake."
She tried to pull her hand back, but he didn't let her. His fingers slid gently between hers, holding her there.
"I'm not," she lied softly.
"Hmm." He smiled faintly. "Then what's this?" He brushed his thumb against her warm cheek.
She swallowed, flustered, her words coming out before she could stop them.
"I missed you."
The air went still.
His hand paused mid-motion, his eyes locking on hers. For a moment, neither of them breathed. Then his lips curved slowly, dangerously.
"What did you say?" he asked, voice playful but softer than before.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Nothing."
"Oh no, cupcake," he said, leaning closer until their faces were only inches apart. "You said something. Say it again."
She didn't answer this time, only looked away again, pretending to focus on the pie. But he saw the tiny smile she tried to hide.
He reached out, brushed a streak of flour from her nose, and whispered close enough for her to feel his breath —
"Next time, just say it louder."
--
Damian stood behind her, his arm loosely circling her waist, his black shirt dusted in white streaks of flour. The apron looked ridiculous on him.
"Stop looking at me like that," she said between giggles, trying to wipe flour off his cheek.
"Like what?" he teased, catching her wrist midair. "Like I'm proud of my little chef?"
She tried to twist her hand free, but he only tightened his grip gently, his lips curving.
"You're blushing again," he murmured, his voice low and amused.
Before she could say anything, a loud dramatic gasp came from the doorway.
"WHAT IN THE HOLY NAME OF THE UNDERWORLD IS THIS?" Viktor's voice boomed through the kitchen.
Elena jumped, turning quickly, and Damian only grunted in annoyance, still holding her by the waist as if letting go wasn't an option.
Viktor's eyes widened as he stepped closer, his jaw dropping at the scene before him.
"Did… did Damian Volkov bake? The same man who once threatened to shut down a restaurant because the chef burned his steak?!"
"Viktor—" Damian started, his tone warning, but Viktor only raised both hands dramatically.
"No, no, don't even speak! I need to process this. There's flour on your face. On your face, Damian!
Are you sure this isn't a fever dream? Did someone hit you on the head?"
Elena burst out laughing, trying to cover her mouth. "You should taste the pie," she said between giggles. "We both made it."
"We?" Viktor echoed, blinking as if the word was foreign. "We? So she managed to get you to step into a kitchen without threatening your life first?"
Damian gave him a cold look that would have made anyone else freeze — but Viktor only grinned wider.
"Fine, fine," he said, walking over dramatically and picking up a fork. "Let me see what the great Damian and his… partner-in-crime cooked up."
Elena crossed her arms, waiting, while Damian stayed behind her, still standing close enough for her to feel his breath against her neck.
Viktor took a bite, chewed once, then paused. His brows lifted, impressed.
"Oh wow," he said finally, looking between the two of them. "This is actually… delicious."
"Told you," Elena said with a proud smile.
Viktor pointed at her with the fork.
"You, Miss Chef, have a talent. And you—" he turned to Damian, grinning mischievously—"look like a man dangerously close to domestic happiness. Be careful, it's contagious."
Damian just rolled his eyes. "Get out, Viktor."
Viktor laughed. "You're throwing me out because I told the truth?"
Elena giggled again, trying to stifle it, and Damian's gaze softened at the sound — even if his face stayed hard for show.
"Out," Damian repeated, though his voice lacked the usual bite.
Viktor winked at Elena as he walked toward the door. "Save me a slice next time, chef. And maybe a picture of Damian in that apron for proof."