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“In the kitchen, babe.”

Her answer makes me stop for a second.

Babe.

A stupid fucking smile tugs at my mouth and I don’t even want to stop it.

I find her standing by the kitchen island, absorbed in whatever she’s preparing. Considering the hour, it should technically be lunch, but judging by what’s spread across the counter, she seems to have decided breakfast is still perfectly acceptable.

She looks up the moment she hears me approach.

“Good morning.”

The smile she gives me is enough to make something warm settle in my chest.

She walks to me, and I open my arms without hesitation, letting her slip into them. I pull her to my chest, breathing in the familiar scent of her hair as I press a kiss to her forehead.

“Good morning, babe,” I murmur, deliberately using the same pet name she called me earlier.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she lowers her gaze with a shy smile, and fuck, it’s adorable.

“I was about to wake you up once I finished making breakfast.” She gestures toward the plates waiting on the counter. “I think we should at least make it to the casino for the second half of the day.”

“Jesus, I completely forgot.”

Work had been the last thing on my mind when I woke up.

“Did you drink any coffee yet?”

“No.”

I kiss her forehead once more, reluctantly letting her go and walking to the coffee machine.

I place two mugs beneath it and press the button, then lean back against the counter while I watch her.

And I don’t even bother pretending I’m not staring.

She moves around the kitchen with an easy familiarity that makes the entire scene feel strangely domestic. Her hair falls over her shoulder as she slices the bread, her attention focused on what she’s doing, utterly unaware—or maybe simply pretending not to notice—that I’m watching her like a man hypnotized.

“You’re insanely beautiful, pixie,” I tell her, the words coming out softer than I intended.

Like a man hopelessly in love.

Because I am.

And because she’s absolutely fucking stunning.

My girlfriend pauses mid-slice and looks over at me.

“Thank you, Zayn.”

“No. Not Zayn.”

I straighten slightly, giving her my most serious expression.

“Babe. Baby. Love. Whatever you want. You only get to call me Zayn when we’re making love and using that teasing little accent of yours.”