Damon pushed open the front door with his foot, his muscles still tense after hours of training. The warm smell of spices, something between garlic and fresh herbs, filled the air as soon as he entered. It wasn't usual. Aria was usually the one who cooked.

As he walked down the narrow hallway, he found only one person in the kitchen—Ester.

She was facing away from him, wearing a light apron over her casual clothes, her long hair tied up in a makeshift way. The afternoon light streaming through the window cast a soft glow on her shoulders.

Damon paused for a second, surprised to see her there. Ester rarely cooked. Or rather—rarely did anything that involved standing still long enough to occupy herself with household chores.

"Isn't Aria here?" he asked, dropping his gym bag in the corner.

Ester didn't look at him, continuing to chop vegetables with movements too precise for someone who "didn't like" to cook.

"She went out to buy some things," she replied, dry as always. "She should be back in half an hour." "Hm." Damon approached, leaning against the doorframe. "So it's just the two of us?"

"Unfortunately," Ester replied without hesitation.

He chuckled. "Always so kind."

She continued chopping, but the blade trembled slightly for a moment. Almost imperceptible.

Damon moved closer, stopping close enough to see the warm aroma of the open pot rising in small waves. He tilted his head.

"Is this… herb stew? Did you make it?"

"It's food. It doesn't need compliments."

"I didn't compliment you," he said with a smile. "I was just surprised."

"Hmph."

Silence for a few seconds. Only the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board.

Damon crossed his arms. "You know, sometimes I think…"

"What now?" she replied immediately, visibly irritated before even hearing it. He tilted his head, a provocative smile appearing on his face.

"Why are you so cold to me?"

Esther finally stopped cutting and looked at him over her shoulder. Her eyes were sharp, but… there was a glint there, something that didn't match her words.

"Maybe because you talk too much," she said. "Or because you don't know your place."

"My place?" Damon raised an eyebrow. "Funny… because it didn't seem that way that night. When you practically dragged me…"

"I didn't drag you." Her voice rose a half-tone. "And even if I had, it doesn't mean anything."

He leaned closer. "Oh, it doesn't mean anything?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"Not at all." But the way she gripped the knife betrayed something else.

Damon took a step back, pretending to accept the answer. But when she resumed chopping the vegetables, he moved with the grace of a feline, approaching her from behind.

He said nothing.

He merely wrapped his arms around her waist, slowly resting his hands on her apron.

Ester froze.

The knife hung in mid-air.

"...Damon." Her voice came out low, almost a whisper. "Let me go."

"No," he murmured against the nape of her neck. "Not until you tell the truth."

"I... I don't care about you." But the sentence came out shaky.

He smiled against her hair.

"Really? Then why are you trembling?"

"I'm not trembling!"

He moved even closer. Ester truly shuddered this time, but forced herself to maintain her rigid posture.

"You're annoying." Her voice now sounded almost choked. "And inconvenient."

"But you're not pushing me."

"Because I'm holding a knife!"

"And even then you don't try to push me away."

She pressed her lips together—he felt it, even without seeing, from the heavy silence that followed.

His fingertips moved up a few inches on her apron, to her waistline.

"Damon…" she murmured again, her face completely flushed. "I told you to let go."

"I heard you." He lightly ran his nose along the curve of her neck. "But you don't want me to let go."

"Y-Yes, I do…" she replied, but her voice faltered.

Damon chuckled softly.

"Ester, you can be cold to the whole world… but to me?" He buried his chin in her shoulder, getting even closer. "With me you always seem about to melt."

Ester squeezed her eyes shut, furious—but her face was burning, literally red from ear to ear.

"Idiot!" she whispered, almost breathless. "You… you shouldn't be doing that while I'm cutting things!"

"Want me to wait until you're finished?" he teased.

"I want you to get out of here!"

But the hand holding the knife was trembling so much that she had to rest it on the cutting board to avoid dropping it.

Damon stepped back just enough to glance sideways at her face—so red that even her neck was flushed.

"Ester…"

She didn't look at him.

"Damon… stop teasing me."

"I'm not teasing you."

"Yes, you are."

He smiled.

"Okay, I admit it. A little."

She finally turned to face him—and regretted it instantly. So close, so enveloped in his arms, their breaths mingled.

Ester swallowed hard.

"...Let go," she repeated, but this time her voice was weak. "Just... let go."

Ester was still trying to regain control of her breathing when Damon released her waist... but only for a moment.

Because immediately afterward he turned her with a firm, precise movement—quick enough for her not to resist, but gentle enough not to hurt. His hand slid from her apron to her hip, guiding her until she was facing him.

The knife fell from her hand and hit the cutting board with a dry thud.

Ester felt the whole world spin.

He positioned her against the counter, their bodies close enough for her to feel his warmth, but without touching her directly—that dangerous, insufficient distance that made every part of her burn with awareness.

Ester's eyes widened, her face still flushed.

"Damon…" She tried to back away, but the counter behind her prevented her. There was nowhere to go. "What do you think you're doing?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he raised one hand and cupped her chin between two fingers, tilting her face upward, forcing her—gently, but without giving her a choice—to look at him.

Ester felt her stomach churn.

Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it wanted to leap from her chest.

"You told me to let go," Damon murmured, his voice too low, too warm. "But you didn't ask me to stop."

Her eyes widened for a moment; then narrowed, confused. "It's the same thing."

"No." His fingers stroked her chin, moving up slightly, almost reaching the line of her lower lip. "Letting go is physical. Stopping… that's another story." "D-Damon… this is madness."

"Maybe." He tilted his head, his face so close she felt his breath touch her skin. "But if you really want me to stop… just say so."

Ester parted her lips.

But nothing came out.

It was as if her throat was stuck, as if her body had decided to betray her own mouth. Her mind screamed one thing, but her heart—and everything else—screamed something much louder.

He smiled, slowly, satisfied.

"I knew it."

His hand slid from the tip of her chin to the side of her face, holding it with his whole palm now. The touch was warm, decisive—possessive in just the right measure.

"So…" he whispered, touching his nose to hers, light as a breath. "You're not going to ask, are you?"

Her face burned. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her apron, as if that could hold her steady.

"I…" she tried, but her voice died before the sentence could be formed.

And Damon understood.

"Okay," he murmured. "Then I'll continue."

The distance between them vanished.

He kissed her.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. Nor was it overly urgent. It was exactly the perfect middle ground, warm, firm, decisive—the kind of kiss that took her breath away and returned it twofold, the kind of kiss that said, "I know you want this," even if she never admitted it aloud.

Ester's body tensed like a bow… and then yielded, her fingers clenching on his apron, pulling him back.

The entire kitchen seemed to fall into absolute silence. Only the two of them existed. The heat of the pan, the smell of the herbs, the faint ticking of the clock on the wall—everything disappeared, swallowed by the moment.

When Damon pulled back just an inch—only to catch his breath—Ester still had her eyes closed, her breathing shallow, her cheeks flushed, her lips slightly parted.

He smiled, his hand still cupping her face.

"Do you want me to stop now?"

Ester opened her eyes slowly, as if the world had just returned to normal.

She hesitated. Just a second.

She hesitated. Just a second.

A single second.

But that second was enough for the world to try and find a way to punish her.

BAM.

The front door slammed shut with a dry crack.

Ester and Damon froze.

The sound echoed through the house—too loud, too unexpected, as if fate had decided to kick the door open on purpose at that moment.

Ester's eyes widened in panic.

"S-shit…!" she whispered, and then pushed Damon hard enough to snap him out of his trance.

He took a step back, without losing his balance, but clearly surprised—even amused by her reaction.

"Hey—"

"Don't say anything!" she cut in, her voice an urgent hiss.

Her face was still flushed, her lips still stained from the kiss, her chest rising and falling too quickly. Her breathing hadn't returned to normal.

And she knew it.

And she knew Aria would notice in a second.

With the desperation of someone trying to hide a fire with a spoon, Ester turned back to the counter. She picked up the knife. She cut the first vegetable so quickly she almost cut herself.

Damon crossed his arms, leaning on the counter, watching her with a smile that was half provocation, half admiration.

"You're trembling," he murmured, too low for Aria to hear as she entered—but loud enough for Ester to hear and want to break the knife over his head.

She didn't answer. Her shoulders were tense, rigid—and her face still burning.

"I'm back!" Aria's voice echoed from the entrance.

The sound of shopping bags swaying against her hip came a second later.

Ester, in pure panic, tried to regulate her breathing. She began stirring the pot as if she were praying to the gods of hell.

Damon simply straightened his posture and walked to the table as if absolutely nothing had happened.

Aria entered the kitchen with her usual carefree smile, her hair vibrating with the movement. She placed two bags on the table and looked at the two of them.

Her gaze lingered on Damon.

Then on Ester.

Then… back to Damon.

She narrowed her eyes.

"...What were you two doing?"

Ester coughed—a sound so fake that even the bubbling pot seemed suspicious.

"C-cooking! That's all!" she said too loudly.

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