Eric's POV:
“Baby? What are you doing? I have a fucking MasterChef to cook for us.”
My love… There’s indeed nothing you can’t do…
She doesn’t look at me at all. Her hands go so fucking fast on everything. Like a pro.
“Satan? Do you see what I have in my right hand?”
What?
Still not looking at me. She’s serving me a cold attitude, like always. She’s iced again.
“A knife, baby?”
My She Devil…
I’m in front of her now, on the other side of the counter, heated up and with a bull stare and attitude to match, with my hands in my pockets. She has an apron, a red one, and her hair is in a ponytail. She has, I think, a soup on the stove, some chicken food, I see something in the oven, and she made some brownies too. Now she’s making a mix of a salad something.
I so love you, Angel…