Archive of Our Own ^beta

Morning crept into the apartment in soft gold, filtering through sheer curtains and spilling across a tangle of limbs in the bed. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeams, suspended like flecks of stardust in the stillness. Beyond the windows, the city murmured its quiet symphony—distant traffic, the occasional birdsong, the muffled thud of someone’s footsteps above—but within these walls, time slowed to a hush.

The sheets were a mess, twisted and bunched at the foot of the bed, clinging to skin that still held the faint sheen of sweat and the afterglow of the night before. One pillow had vanished to the floor, another hung precariously by a corner. The air was steeped in the scent of extinguished vanilla candles, laced with something warmer, muskier—something that lingered only after shared desire and closeness.

Illumi lay perfectly still beneath the curve of Hisoka’s arm, their bodies pressed flush, chest to chest, their legs knotted like ivy. Hisoka’s nose was tucked into the soft black spill of Illumi’s hair, his breath a slow rhythm warming Illumi’s temple.

For a long time, neither moved. Then, with the slow stretch of a cat that knew it was safe and loved, Hisoka shifted, nuzzling lazily against the slope of Illumi’s neck like he belonged there—like he had always belonged there.

“Morning, darling~” he purred, his voice still husky with sleep, part yawn, part grin. “Sleep well after our… nightly adventures?”

Illumi made a low sound in his throat, eyes still closed. His voice rasped, dry and quiet. “You’re heavy.”

“Mmm, I know.” Hisoka grinned, unrepentant, and draped one long leg further over Illumi, pinning him like a smug blanket with teeth. “You’re warm. Like a living weighted blanket. Very soothing.”

Illumi didn’t protest. His fingers came to rest on the dip of Hisoka’s spine, idly tracing down the ridges of bone and muscle, slow and thoughtless. There was no mission today. No enemy. No target. Just the soft tick of the kitchen clock, the hum of the world outside, and the weight of a quiet morning between two people who rarely allowed themselves to be soft.

Hisoka sighed—content, satisfied—and let the air shiver from his chest in a hum. “You’re going to make me lazy, you know,” he murmured.

“You already are,” Illumi replied, tone flat, but touched with the barest smile beneath it. Familiar. Affectionate. Truth disguised as teasing.

They lay in silence a while longer, drinking in the stillness. It was rare, this kind of intimacy. Rare to have nothing but breath and heartbeat and a lover’s skin in the morning light. Eventually, Hisoka leaned in again, shifting just enough to whisper near the delicate shell of Illumi’s ear, the words softer now, like something sacred.

“Want to try baking that cake again today?”

Illumi’s lashes fluttered as he blinked. “...Why?”

Hisoka pulled back enough to look at him, his smile quieter this time—genuine in a way that felt almost reverent. “Because,” he said, voice hushed and warm, “you wanted to do it for me. And now... I want to do it with you.”

A pause.

Illumi stared at the ceiling, his eyes half-lidded and unreadable, following the slow dance of shadows cast by the swaying curtains. His expression barely shifted, but his voice broke the stillness.

“I’m not sure I can,” he said quietly. “Last time was… inefficient.”

Hisoka chuckled, low and amused, the sound vibrating through both their chests. His arms coiled a little tighter around Illumi’s waist, anchoring him. “That’s because you were trying to do it alone,” he murmured.

Illumi’s brow twitched, just slightly. “You wouldn't know how to help,” he said. “You don’t bake.”

“I don’t need to know baking, silly,” Hisoka whispered, pressing a kiss to the underside of Illumi’s jaw—warm and lingering. “I just need to be me.”

Illumi didn’t respond at first. He didn’t fully understand what that meant—what being Hisoka had to do with flour or burnt sponges or melting butter—but he didn’t ask.

Instead, he let the quiet settle again, let Hisoka’s warmth seep into him like the morning sun through the sheets. He felt the weight of the other man’s leg draped over his own, the steady rhythm of breath shared between them, the faint tick of the clock from the kitchen.

And slowly, the thought of trying again—of eggs and sugar and cracked bowls, with Hisoka laughing beside him instead of being alone in the mess—felt… less like failure waiting to happen, and more like a strange kind of comfort.

He didn’t say yes. But he didn’t say no either.

———

An Hour Later.

Illumi stood once more in front of the kitchen counter, hair tied back into a clean ponytail, sleeves rolled high on his forearms, exposing pale skin marked faintly by old training scars. Every ingredient was arranged with surgical precision—flour sifted, eggs uncracked but standing at attention, butter at room temperature. The mixing bowl gleamed under the soft morning light, a quiet challenge waiting to be conquered. This time, there would be no mistakes. This time, he wouldn’t fail.

Hisoka, meanwhile, was perched on the kitchen counter like a cat with nowhere else to be. Barefoot, wearing only loose pajama pants and one of his old too-small shirts that clung a little too tight, he swung his legs lazily as if they weren’t about to summon another baking apocalypse. He held Illumi’s phone in both hands, eyes scanning the screen like it held some dangerous secret.

Illumi’s eyes flicked toward him, narrowing. “I thought you said you wanted to help,” he said coolly, cracking an egg into the bowl with practiced efficiency. “So why are you on my phone?” The disapproval in his voice was unmistakable.

Hisoka chuckled, utterly unbothered. “Oh, sweetheart,” he purred, twirling the phone like a coin between his fingers, “you’ll understand soon enough.” Then, dramatically throwing one arm into the air, he declared, “Let the baking… begin!”

Illumi narrowed his eyes further, suspicious—but he turned back to the bowl, deciding to ignore him for now. He cracked another egg, more carefully this time, measuring the yolk's firmness and adjusting the angle of the shell so it wouldn’t split. His movements were precise, focused.

Then the phone buzzed in Hisoka’s hand. Mother. The name flashed on the screen, stark and sharp.

Hisoka grinned, all teeth. Mischievous. Dangerous.

Illumi froze mid-stir. His entire body tensed, muscles coiled like wire. He moved instantly, abandoning the bowl with the urgency of a man sensing disaster. “Give it to me,” he said, voice tight, hand outstretched. “Now.”

But Hisoka only leaned back, casually lifting the phone out of reach with a flick of his wrist, still smiling.

“What are you doing?” Illumi’s voice pitched up just slightly—still calm on the surface, but that calm was paper-thin and cracking. “Hisoka. Give me the phone.”

Hisoka tilted his head. “Do you trust me?” he asked, almost gently.

Illumi stared at him like he’d grown a second head. His jaw clenched. “Not when it comes to my mother.”

The phone buzzed again—once, then twice, then a third time. Each chime was like a needle against Illumi’s skin.

Hisoka didn’t budge. “Answer me,” he said softly, still holding the phone out of reach. “Do you trust me?”

Illumi hesitated.

Another buzz. He could see the texts piling up. His mother’s mood—delicate, easily tipped from mildly annoyed to full-blown fury—would only worsen with delay. She hated being made to wait. Especially by him.

Still… Hisoka was watching him, not teasing now but earnest in his strange way, the kind of sincerity that made Illumi uneasy because it wasn’t something he knew how to deal with.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. His hands were trembling slightly, whether from the tension or the effort to let go, he didn’t know. “…Fine,” he muttered.

Hisoka’s eyes lit up like a performer seeing the spotlight. With a dramatic flourish, he tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. “Mommmm~!” he sang sweetly.

Illumi froze, his soul visibly leaving his body for a brief second. “No—”

Across the line, there was silence. Then,  “…Hisoka?” The name was sharp, confused, and unmistakably irritated.

“Yes!” Hisoka chirped, giddy. “Illumi’s elbow-deep in cake batter for his beloved clown, so I’ve graciously stepped in to handle all your emotional overflow today. Pour it out, sugarplum.”

Illumi flinched so hard he nearly dropped the whisk. “Don’t call her that.”

Too late. A shrill intake of breath crackled through the phone. 

“What did you just call me?!” Kikyo screeched. “Have some respect, clown! Give the phone back to my son this instant!”

Illumi lunged to snatch the phone, but Hisoka danced away with the elegance of a greased eel, skipping across the kitchen tiles barefoot.

“Illumi, control him!” his mother’s voice barked through the speaker. “Is this how you let outsiders behave in your household?!”

“I’m trying,” Illumi muttered darkly, making another swipe for the phone.

Hisoka spun behind the kitchen island like it was a stage prop. “I’m defending your honor, Kikyo! Surely that counts for something~”

“Give. Me. Back. My. Son.” Kikyo snarled.

“Darling,” Hisoka stage-whispered to Illumi, holding the phone high above his head like it was cursed treasure, “I think she’s foaming at the mouth.”

“You’re going to make it worse.”

“She was already halfway there.”

Illumi made another grab—this time with real threat behind it—but Hisoka juked just enough to avoid contact, balancing on the armrest of the couch like a smug cat.

“Hisoka,” Illumi warned, calm but visibly close to snapping. “Give me the phone.”

“But I got this,” Hisoka insisted, waving the device like a flag of war. “Just trust me.”

“You said that last time.”

“And yet look how beautifully this is going!” he sing-songed, then ducked as Illumi made one final lunge. The phone slipped from his hand mid-dodge—only to be caught on instinct with a flourish. “See? Coordination. I should’ve joined the circus.”

“You basically did.”

“Illumi Zoldyck!” Kikyo shrieked from the phone. “Are you listening?!”

He exhaled. “Unfortunately.”

But after trying a few more times—the yelling, the chaos, the embarrassment—Illumi slowly stepped back. Folded his arms. Narrowed his eyes at Hisoka. “Fine. You want to deal with her? Go ahead. I hope you enjoy being disowned.”

Hisoka grinned, victorious. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

———

Thirty Minutes Later.

The kitchen had settled into something like peace. Illumi stood over the counter once more, sifting flour with focused precision. His motions were steady, practiced, clean. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and butter, the earliest hints of something warm beginning to build. 

Across the room, Hisoka lounged upside-down on the couch, legs draped over the backrest, hair flopped toward the floor like a crimson waterfall. He held the phone on speaker, expression alternating between fascination and boredom.

“...So I told him,” Kikyo was saying, her voice imperious through the speaker, “that if he didn’t want to be poisoned by one of our grandsons’ wives in the future, he’d better start listening when I speak about our lineage’s hygiene traditions!”

Hisoka, dangling like a bat, raised a brow. “Yes, yes, fascinating,” he crooned, twirling a lock of his hair between two fingers. “Say, have you ever considered therapy?”

There was a pause. “Is that a type of poison?”

“In a way,” Hisoka said sweetly. “Very slow. Very painful. But it kills your inner guilt instead of your enemies.”

“A shame,” Kikyo muttered. “I much prefer the traditional method.”

Illumi didn’t turn, but his lips twitched. The barest flicker of amusement surfaced on his face—brief, restrained, but real. The flour fell like soft snow into the bowl. The kitchen was warm. And he was beginning to believe that maybe—just maybe—the cake might actually get made this time.

———

Fifteen Minutes Later

Hisoka was still dangling upside-down from the couch like a particularly dramatic chandelier, fingers combing lazily through the shaggy rug below. He looked halfway to sleep, and yet managed to nod along, eyes half-lidded, as Kikyo launched into yet another unsolicited monologue about Zoldyck courtship rituals and the spiritual implications of improper tea posture.

“...And then I told her, just because she was born into the family doesn’t mean she can marry into it again. No class, that woman—none!”

“Mmhmm,” Hisoka hummed, twirling a frayed thread on the cushion beside him like it held the secrets of the universe. “Have you ever considered an exorcism? Sounds like she might be haunted.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Kikyo snapped, though her voice dipped just slightly with amusement. “But I do enjoy that you’re listening. Unlike my sons, who treat my wisdom like some sort of punishment—”

Buzz. The screen lit up. Another call. Incoming. From Father.

Hisoka raised a brow lazily. “Oop. Big Daddy’s calling.” Without a shred of shame, he tapped the screen, cutting Kikyo off mid-sentence with a cheerful, “Hold please, sugarplum~!” before switching to the new call.

He didn’t sit up—just lifted the phone higher and spoke into it like hosting a twisted radio show. “Hello~ Zoldyck-Morrow patriarch hotline. How may we emotionally disappoint you today?”

There was a pause.

“Hisoka.” Silva’s voice came low, clipped, measured. No warmth. Just cold authority shaped into syllables. “Where’s Illumi?”

In the kitchen, the shift was immediate. Illumi—who had been stirring batter with smooth, methodical movements—froze. He turned his head just slightly toward the couch, already knowing. 

“Is that my father?” he asked, voice suddenly flat, the earlier softness replaced by instinctive readiness.

Hisoka, still upside-down, pointed at the screen with a smug little finger-wiggle. “Ding ding. Your old man wants to talk taxes or murder or whatever it is you two do for bonding.”

Without a word, Illumi rinsed his hands, dried them with brisk efficiency, and moved with eerie silence to the shelves—reaching up, top cabinet, muscle memory flawless to grab his laptop.

Hisoka heard the telltale creak of the hinge and immediately rolled off the couch with a loud thump, landing on his feet in a graceless crouch like a startled cat. “Nope. Oh no you don’t.” He dashed across the room, intercepting Illumi with theatrical urgency.

Illumi was already halfway to powering on the emergency laptop when Hisoka reached him. He slammed the cabinet door shut with a decisive click and placed a hand flat against it, blocking access like it held nuclear codes. “Step away from the temptation, soldier.”

Illumi blinked, confusion flickering in his eyes. “My father needs me to check documents.”

“You’re making cake,” Hisoka said firmly, herding him backward with both hands at his waist. “There are eggs to crack and sugar to sift. No spreadsheets. No blood contracts. Only baked goods.”

“I can do both,” Illumi said, tone clipped, but his steps faltered under Hisoka’s pressure.

“You could,” Hisoka agreed smoothly. “But then I’d have to call your mother back and tell her you abandoned cake duty. And she’d monologue about legacy and failure for two hours. Do you want that? Do you want Kikyo on speakerphone again?”

Illumi hesitated. His jaw tightened. He looked at the laptop cabinet once more, conflicted.

Then Hisoka leaned in, nose brushing Illumi’s cheek, voice dropping to a velvet whisper. “Be a rebel, darling. Make the cake. Let your father wait.”

Illumi sighed through his nose. Long. Controlled. Then he turned slowly back to the counter. “…You’re going to regret this when he sends someone to check on me.”

“I regret nothing,” Hisoka chirped, snatching up the whisk and handing it back like a sword to a knight. “Now. Where were we? Ah, yes. Whipping the batter until stiff peaks form—much like my heart when you ignore your family for me.”

Illumi snorted—barely—but it counted.

“Illumi,” Silva’s voice crackled through the phone, steely and precise. “This will only take fifteen minutes. The contractor in Easton mishandled the estate blueprint, and I need you to verify the seal signatures before midnight local time.”

Illumi’s hand froze on the mixing bowl. His head turned slightly, gaze flicking toward the phone, jaw tightening just enough to be noticed.

Hisoka, back on the counter like a smug gargoyle, swung one leg playfully before speaking to the phone “Okay, but have you tried asking Milluki?”

There was a pause on the other end. Cold. Suspicious.

“…That anime-addled brat?” Silva said eventually, as if the phrase personally offended him.

“Yup!” Hisoka chirped, grinning. “He’s actually pretty good with computers. All those years of questionable hentai have made him a wizard with digital paperwork. I mean—he’s fast, he’s weirdly thorough, and he never asks why a file needs to be encrypted.”

“Milluki doesn’t have the discretion for family documents.”

“You’re assuming discretion is exclusive to emotionally constipated assassins,” Hisoka replied, inspecting his nails. “He’s already in a basement. That’s practically half the job done.”

“…He lives in a basement,” Silva repeated, like the sentence was a crime against nature.

“So did Marie Curie,” Hisoka said, unbothered. “And she changed the world.”

A beat of silence. You could almost hear the mental calculator in Silva’s head grinding through the logic—reluctant, grinding gears of consideration. Then, at last, with the enthusiasm of a man biting into cold tofu.

“…I will consider it.”

“Ohhh, we love growth,” Hisoka purred, spinning the phone lazily in his hand like a coin. “Your therapist would be so proud.”

Before Silva could respond —Click—a chime. The phone screen flashed.

Kikyo (Resumed Call)

Hisoka blinked. “Oh right, your mom’s still waiting on hold.”

The screen flashed—Kikyo, unpaused. “—and another thing! If you want your future heirs to be properly respected, they must learn to bow at exactly thirty-five degrees, not that dreadful forty-five everyone uses these days! Now, where was I—?”

“Oh, you’re back~” Hisoka sing-songed, as though she’d just re-entered a garden party. His voice danced with amusement, barely holding in a snort.

“You put me on hold?” Kikyo hissed, her voice sharp enough to slice through steel. “Me?”

“I had to answer your husband,” Hisoka replied smoothly, flipping a mixing spoon in one hand like a baton. “You know, for balance. Equality.”

“Equality is a myth,” Kikyo snapped. “You were supposed to be listening to me. I was just starting to enjoy it.”

Illumi, elbow-deep in batter, let out a breath that was somewhere between a sigh and a groan. He didn’t look up, but his grip on the whisk visibly tightened.

Hisoka, ever the chaos enthusiast, flipped the phone to speaker and leaned in close like he was sharing a bedtime secret. “She likes me,” he stage-whispered to Illumi.

“That’s not a compliment,” Illumi muttered, dumping flour into the bowl with the surgical precision of a man disarming a landmine.

“Oh, it is,” Hisoka grinned, eyes glinting. “She’s just mad I didn’t let her monologue straight through lunch.”

“I was on a roll,” Kikyo snapped. “You have no idea how difficult it is to get through to my sons lately. They're worse than their father.”

“That's because you trained them to be emotionally bulletproof,” Hisoka said, grabbing a spoon and rhythmically tapping it against the bowl like a metronome.

“That was the point, clown.”

“You created a fortress and now you’re mad no one visits,” he replied, gaze sharp despite his smile. “So dramatic. I approve.”

Silence crackled on the line for a breath. Then— “Tch.” A single scoff, low and clipped, but not wholly dismissive.

Outside, the light through the windows shifted—gold deepening toward amber as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows that danced over countertops dusted in flour and the faint fog of powdered sugar lingering in the air.

Illumi stirred, methodically, but his shoulders had lowered slightly. His fingers, still steady, seemed less rigid now. The batter began to smooth, slowly taking shape.

Hisoka reached over and dusted a bit of flour from Illumi’s cheek, brushing his skin with the softest touch. “By the way, the oven’s ready, love.”

Illumi blinked, then nodded, reaching for the tin. As he poured the batter in with slow, careful hands, Kikyo continued in the background—now critiquing Silva’s handling of a recent engagement party with withering disdain.

Hisoka leaned against the counter, watching Illumi with something that looked suspiciously like pride. “You’re doing great, darling.”

Illumi didn’t respond, but a faint, imperceptible flicker passed over his lips. Almost a smile. Maybe. Just maybe.

———

Another Thirty Minutes Later.

Timer, Set. Cake, In the Oven. Phone, Buzzing Again. This time, Milluki.

Illumi turned instinctively, fingers already twitching toward the phone resting on the dine table, but Hisoka was faster. He snatched it up with the flair of a magician pulling a dove from his sleeve.

“Millu-chan! My favorite anime goblin!” Hisoka purred, grinning ear to ear as he wagged a finger at Illumi like a mother shooing a child away from the stovetop. “Focus on the cake, darling. Watch the rise. Not the chaos.”

A disgusted scoff crackled through the speaker. “Don’t call me that, freak.”

“I love it when you insult me,” Hisoka replied sweetly, flopping onto the nearest chair like a decadent cat in heat. “Anyway, Illumi’s hands are full—literally. He’s mixing batter like a domestic sex god. What do you want?”

There was a pause on Milluki’s end. Possibly mental buffering. “…Can you check the Christmas sale site for me?” he asked, already shifting gears.

Without missing a beat, Hisoka pulled out his phone—yes, his phone, because he’d come prepared like the menace he was—and tapped rapidly. “Already done. Snagged two of those frog girls you like, plus a six-pack of risqué elf statues with disturbingly anatomically correct knees.”

“...You are freakishly efficient.”

“I’m the perfect housewife,” Hisoka cooed, glancing at Illumi with exaggerated fluttering lashes. “With a side of criminal mischief.”

There was a moment of genuine silence. Then Milluki, suspicious, started again, “By the way… does Illumi know that Father suddenly dumped the Easton documents on me today? I mean, it’s not like I’m complaining—it’s about time the old man noticed my potential,” he added with a smug tone, “but it’s still suspiciously sudden—”

“Mmhm,” Hisoka hummed vaguely.

Milluki continued, “—like, what if he’s testing me? Or worse, what if this is some kind of trap to humiliate me at the next family audit? Do you think—?”

Click.

Hisoka ended the call mid-rant, humming a lullaby under his breath.

“He’ll figure it out,” he said airily, placing the phone face-down beside the flour tin. “Or implode. Either way, entertaining.”

The oven ticked softly behind them. The scent of rising cake began to fill the kitchen—warm, golden, sweet with a hint of citrus. For a moment, the room held a rare stillness.

Hisoka leaned back, eyes half-lidded, watching Illumi crouch to peek into the oven’s glass door, ever focused, ever precise. Domesticity, he thought, had never been this fun.

The phone buzzed again. Kalluto.

Before Illumi could reach for it, Hisoka snatched it up with a theatrical gasp. “Oho~ Lil spider! What a rare treat.”

Onscreen, Kalluto’s face was calm and unreadable as ever, but his voice was clipped. “I’m looking for Illumi.”

Hisoka, already licking a smear of batter from his thumb, replied cheerfully, “Unavailable at the moment. He’s wrist-deep in domestic glory.”

A brief pause.

“I see,” Kalluto said, with all the emotional range of a blade sliding into a sheath. “Then I’ll call another time.”

And just like that—he hung up. No fuss. No questions. Just… gone.

Hisoka blinked at the phone. “Well, that was cold.” He tossed it onto the couch with a soft thud and glanced toward Illumi. “Your baby brother doesn’t like me.”

Illumi, without looking up from hot oven, said simply, “He only wants his brother. Not a stranger.”

“…Ouch.”

“Truth.”

Hisoka sulked for exactly six seconds before flicking powdered sugar at the back of Illumi’s neck.

———

An Hour Later.

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft hum of the oven cooling down and the faint ticking of the wall clock.

Illumi slowly, almost ceremoniously, opened the oven door. A gentle wave of warm, vanilla-sweet air escaped—thick with butter, citrus, and something that felt dangerously close to pride.

Hisoka, barefoot and unbothered, peeked in over Illumi’s shoulder, resting his chin squarely between the other man’s shoulder blades with all the gravity of a royal witness to a sacred rite.

Together, they stared at the sponge cake. Golden brown. Even. Fluffy. Slightly domed in the middle. No smoke. No collapse. No catastrophes. Just… cake.

Illumi didn’t speak. He just stood there, hands clasped behind his back like a scientist observing a delicate experiment reaching its final, perfect conclusion. He looked almost afraid to breathe.

Hisoka whispered reverently, “You did it.”

Illumi blinked once. Slowly. “…I did.”

“You really did.” Hisoka beamed, then spun Illumi gently by the shoulders and kissed his cheek—flour and all—with such radiant pride it made the room feel warmer than the oven ever had. “You made me a birthday cake.”

Illumi tilted his head. “It’s not your birthday anymore.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Hisoka winked. “We can call it a celebration cake. You overcame domestic despair.”

Illumi’s eyes dropped to his hands—still dusted in flour, a smear of icing somehow on his wrist. Then to the cake. Then to Hisoka’s eyes.

“...Thank you,” he said softly.

Hisoka tilted his head, surprised by the shift in tone. “For what?”

“For helping.” A pause. “For staying.”

Hisoka’s grin melted, just slightly, into something softer—less grin, more glow.

“Oh, my dear Illu-chan,” he purred, leaning in close again, forehead nearly brushing Illumi’s, “I’m just here to take your calls and steal your heart.”

Illumi stared at him. Long. Direct. Eyes still calm, but with something raw flickering deep behind them. 

“…You already have it,” he said. Flat, but certain. As if stating a tactical fact in a mission briefing.

Hisoka blinked. Then something in his chest curled like a ribbon in warm air, and he beamed—no tricks, no glitter, no razzle-dazzle. Just happy.

They ate the cake later on the floor, backs against the cabinets, still in their mismatched pajamas. Hisoka’s legs tangled with Illumi’s like ivy with no sense of boundaries. A candle flickered on the table—not for the birthday, but just because.

The sponge was light. Citrusy. Sweet without being cloying.

Illumi took each bite with quiet focus, while Hisoka groaned dramatically after every forkful. “Ohhh it’s so moist,” he gasped. “It’s like being kissed by a lemon-scented angel.”

Illumi rolled his eyes, but his mouth twitched upward.

They didn't talk about their parents. Or contracts. Or the estate in Easton. Just the cake. And maybe how the next one should be matcha.

They sat there until the plate was empty, crumbs scattered like confetti. And in that quiet little kitchen, full of sugar and something dangerously close to affection— it tasted like victory.

And maybe… something even sweeter.