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Ryneth started to laugh.
Daven looked down at him, still on his knees at his feet, flushed and dazed and far too pleased with himself. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess. He looked completely wrecked, and the sight of him made something hot curl low in Ryneth’s stomach.
“You think that’s funny, aethera?” he asked, but there was no real bite in it.
Ryneth tipped his head back and smiled, all soft triumph and lingering heat. “Maybe a little.”
“Brat,” Daven muttered.
He slid a hand into Ryneth’s hair and bent to kiss him. Slow this time. Deep. Not hungry in the same frantic way as before, but deliberate. Possessive. The taste of himself still lingered between them, and Ryneth’s pulse kicked harder.
When he finally pulled back, Ryneth was breathing hard, his eyes unfocused.
“Up,” Daven said, hooking a hand under his arm and hauling him to his feet. He kept him there for a second, one palm spread over the back of his neck, thumb brushing under his jaw. “You’re going to kill me one of these mornings.”
Ryneth leaned into him before he seemed to realize he was doing it. “You told me to crawl.”
Daven huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t think you actually would.”
“I wanted to.” The words slipped out so softly Ryneth almost missed them.
Daven looked at him for a second too long, something unreadable passing over his face.
Ryneth’s breath caught.
Daven pressed one last kiss to his forehead, then stepped back before he did something stupid and forgot the food all over again.
“Sit down,” he ordered, pointing toward the island. “Before the second batch burns too.”
Ryneth glanced toward the pan, then back at him, his mouth twitching. “So I’m not the problem. Your cooking is.”
“Keep talking and I’ll feed you the black ones.”
Ryneth snorted and finally obeyed, climbing onto one of the stools while Daven turned back to the stove. The pancakes were thin and a little uneven, and the first batch was beyond saving, but the rest looked edible. Barely.
Daven scraped the worst of the burnt one into the waste bin, then plated the others with more care than they probably deserved.
The pancakes were thin, slightly lopsided, but the steam rising from them was clean and sweet. Ryneth took a bite, the flavor hitting his tongue with a richness that made his shoulders drop.
“This is… better than the birthday ones,” he murmured.
His mind drifted back to the Waltr from the night before, the memory of their dinner still vivid. It had been beautiful, not just for the architecture or the stars, but because they had actually talked. Last night hadn’t only been the food or the view. It had been the talking.
He’d liked that more than he wanted to admit.
Daven leaned back against the counter, coffee in hand, watching him. “Birthday ones?”
Ryneth nodded, eyes fixed on the syrup. “On Düren, we only had these for birthdays. Mara used water instead of milk most years. It made them thin and a bit gray, but Tavi and the boys always cheered like it was a feast.”
Daven’s jaw tightened. He looked at the modest pile of food, then at the sprawling, glass-and-chrome luxury of the penthouse. The contrast settled heavy in his chest.
“I never used to cook,” Daven admitted, his voice rough. “I’d have food delivered, or I’d eat at the Academy. But since you’re here, I found it… quiet.” He took a sip of his coffee. “It’s something I can make mine. I don’t have to perform. I don’t have to make Milanov or my cousins proud. It’s just peace.”
Ryneth studied him across the kitchen island. It was strange, seeing Daven like this, barefoot, half-dressed, cooking breakfast like any ordinary man. It didn’t match the version of him that ruled the Academy halls or argued strategy with the Imperial council.
“Does your uncle know you’re wasting your mornings on pancakes?” Ryneth asked lightly.
He’d meant it to tease, but Daven’s expression hardened.
