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His eyes follow me around the kitchen as I add gnocchi, sauce, cheese, and basil.

“More?”

“Yes.”

I add another spoonful.

“More?”

“Yes.”

I look at him.

“How are you not five hundred pounds?”

“Superior genetics.”

“Arrogance burns calories?”

“Apparently.”

I snort. By the time I sit across from him, the knot in my chest has loosened.

This feels familiar. Dangerously familiar. Comfortable too.

I slide my fork through the sauce.

“We should probably talk.”

Damian sets down his fork. Then, slowly, he reaches across the table.

He doesn't grab me.

He doesn't assume.

He turns his hand palm up between us.

An offering.

My chest tightens. I put my hand in his. The instant our skin touches, magic dances across our joined fingers.

Gold.

But not entirely.

It’s red, too.

Tiny golden sparks burn red around the edges, winding over my hand and onto his.

His own magic rises to meet mine. Brilliant red with black at the center.

The colors twist together. Not fighting. Not consuming.

Just fitting.

“We probably should,” he says.

His thumb brushes gently over my knuckles.