The smell of freshly fried chicken and warm bread filled the villa's dining room. Morning light spilled through the wide glass windows, catching on the steam rising from the plates the maid had just brought in. Mio sat there, wrapped in one of Claude's oversized shirts—because of course he hadn't let her grab her own clothes after the shower—and glared at him like he was the embodiment of sin itself.
Claude, unbothered and devastatingly pleased with himself, leaned lazily against the chair across from her. His sleeves were rolled up, collar still damp from the earlier chaos, and his hair fell over his forehead in a careless, post-shower mess that somehow made him look even more handsome.
"Stop looking at me like that," he said, pretending to pout while clearly enjoying it.
"I'm not," Mio replied flatly, stabbing a piece of spicy wing with her fork like it had personally offended her.
