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I pull my face out from between his hands and look back at the coffee.

“You really don’t have to do shit like this for me.”

There. Wall successfully rebuilt.

Damiano’s brow darkens. “It’s just coffee, weirdo.”

My jaw sets. “I can take care of myself.”

I can feel his eyes on me while I pour oat milk into my coffee.

“Fine,” he finally shrugs. “Works for me.”

“Good.”

He drops the container of hands onto the counter. “Great.”

It’s dark by the time I get back to the cottage after my last class of the day.

It was a long-ass day. The entire campus is still staring at me like they can't actually wrap their heads around the idea that I’m married to a human being.

Join the club, dickheads.

But when I step into the cottage, I groan as an incredible smell hits my nostrils: garlic, butter, herbs, meat sizzling.

Instantly, my stomach rumbles.

Damiano is in the kitchen, the sleeves of a henley that looks way too good on him pushed up, moving around and stirring pots on the stove like he actually knows what the hell he’s doing.

“That smells amazing,” I groan, my mouth watering.

He glances over his shoulder and smiles.

“Thanks. Braised short ribs, parmesan polenta, roast carrots.”

Can you get horny for food? Because I think I just came.

“Fuck,” I moan as I drag in another appreciative whiff.

His smile deepens as I dump my bag by the stairs.

“I’m showering before I eat.”

“Okay.”

Twenty minutes later, I come back downstairs in leggings and one of my enormous hoodies just as Damiano is bringing food to the kitchen table.

Fuck yes.

I practically skip into the kitchen and eagerly drop into a chair. Then I notice the plate.

Not plates.

Plate.

Damiano sits across from me, an obscenely beautiful serving of short ribs and polenta in front of him.

Fuck.