–Livana–
The kitchen greeted me with its sterile chill, the faint hum of the refrigerator a low whisper in the background. I traced my fingertips along the edge of the counter before pulling the door open, letting the cold air bloom against my skin like a forgotten winter. The scent that drifted out was dry, metallic, and faintly sweet—nostalgia in its own peculiar way. I extended my hand inside, my fingers brushing against the cold, crinkled edges of wrappers and containers. Behind me, I felt his presence—steady, warm, unrelenting as always.
He didn't need to ask what I was looking for; Damon never does. I felt his arm move beside me, his body heat mingling with the frosty breath of the fridge, until something cold and crinkled brushed my hand. His fingers, rougher than mine, placed it in my palm.
"I think this is it," he murmured, his voice a soft rumble behind my ear.
