Page 10 of The Spark

Because the second I stepped into the hallway, the scent of rich maple syrup, buttery pancakes, and sizzling bacon wrapped around me like a slow seduction. Then I turned the corner, and my breath hitched.

He stood at the stove, shirtless, broad back flexing as he flipped a pancake onto a plate. Low-hanging gray sweats, a gold chain resting on his chest, beard still slightly unkempt from sleep. The morning light filtered through the windows, catching on the deep brown of his skin, highlighting the ridges of muscle in his back, the cut of his arms, the dip where his sweatpants sat too low on his hips.

I was fucked, but not the way I wanted to be.

My nipples tightened against my shirt, my thighs pressed together, my stomach dipped low and needy. This man had no business looking so damn good in my kitchen, smelling like he belonged there.

I cleared my throat.

His head tilted slightly at the sound, just enough for me to catch the slow, lazy smirk pulling at his lips.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, voice thick from sleep.

I wrapped my arms around myself, leaning against the doorframe, trying not to look too affected. "You cooked?"

"Mmhmm," he murmured, flipping another pancake. "Go ahead and sit. Coffee’s hot."

I blinked, glancing at the plate he’d already set out for me. The table was actually set. The food looked perfect. I hesitated, feeling that twist of guilt in my chest.

"I should’ve gone grocery shopping," I muttered, stepping into the kitchen. "I’ve just been?—"

He turned, cutting me off gently. "Busy. I know. That’s why I did it. Ain’t a big deal."

I frowned, biting the inside of my cheek. "Still. You didn’t have to do all this."

He stepped closer, placing the last pancake on the plate before me. His fingers brushed mine, warm and steady. "I wanted to. I’m grateful, Amaya. For you. For letting me stay here, for real."

I looked down at the plate, then back up at him, something soft and unexpected blooming in my chest.

"Okay," I whispered, voice barely audible.

"Now sit. Eat. Let me do this for you."

So I did.

I sank onto the stool at the counter, still eyeing him as I picked up my fork. He sat across from me, finally pouring himself some coffee.

"You know our moms would be smug as hell if they saw this right now," I said, trying to keep the mood light.

Amir chuckled. "Beverly probably already knows. My mom too. They’ve been plotting since we were what—ten?"

I laughed softly, but it barely covered the way my stomach fluttered. A memory rose from the back of my mind—faded but vivid enough to still pull at me. I’d overheard my mom once, telling his that we were going to make them family one day. Back then, I’d rolled my eyes. But now, with him sitting across from me, barefoot and shirtless in my kitchen, that memory pressed in close.

I looked down quickly, biting my lip, trying to focus on my plate.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his voice softer now.

I blinked, forcing a small smile. "Nothing. Just hungry."

He didn’t push. Just nodded slowly and turned his attention back to his plate.

The pancake was warm, buttery, the syrup rich and thick, melting across my tongue in a way that made me moan low in my throat. I took another slow bite, savoring the sweetness, my body sinking into the warmth of the moment.

"Damn, Amaya," he muttered. "At least let me take you out to dinner first."

My eyes snapped open to find him watching me, smirk in full effect, dark gaze heavy on my lips.

I pointed my fork at him. "Shut up."

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