Notes Between Seasons

The kitchen smelled like morning; warm and intimate, laced with the comforting richness of freshly brewed coffee, the golden edge of toasting bread, and something else that lingered in the air like a secret: the scent of them, still clinging to skin and hair, the quiet perfume of sleep-warmed bodies and last night's closeness.

Sunlight spilled through the window above the sink in slanted beams, casting soft lines across the countertops and illuminating the floating dust like stardust caught midair. The hum of the fridge was the only sound besides the occasional soft sizzle from the stove and the rhythmic scrape of a spatula against the pan.

Anya stood barefoot on the cool tiles, toes curling now and then against the chill. She wore nothing but one of Elias's old t-shirts, a faded black thing with cracked white print that barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. The fabric clung to her slightly in the humid warmth, especially across her back and where it dipped gently over her hips. The sleeves slipped halfway down her arms, loose and worn and clearly well-loved, but never more so than in this moment.

She moved with a kind of effortless calm, hips swaying ever so slightly as she reached for the salt, her focus narrowed on the pan as she gently flipped the eggs. Her hair was still sleep-mussed and messy in the prettiest way… tendrils falling over her face and down her neck. Her cheeks were warm from the stove's heat or maybe from the intensity of the gaze on her back.

Elias leaned against the doorway, shirtless, wearing only a pair of dark cotton shorts that hung low on his hips. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, the other resting on the frame as he watched her in silence, a lazy smile curving his lips. His eyes roamed over her like he was memorizing a masterpiece, not just the way she looked, but the way she moved. The way the hem of his shirt lifted when she reached for a plate. The way her hum dropped into a contented sigh when the eggs cooked just right.

He couldn't help it; there was something magnetic about seeing her like this. Comfortable. Unfiltered. Completely at ease in his space, in his clothes, in his morning.

"Didn't know you were the domestic type," Elias teased, his voice still rough at the edges, a delicious gravel that clung to the low register of sleep.

Anya turned her head slightly, shooting him a dry look over her shoulder. Her hair brushed against his chest, loose and soft. "You're lucky I haven't made you do it."

"Oh, I can cook," Elias said, stepping in close enough for his body heat to wrap around her like another layer. His gaze dropped briefly, tracing the length of her bare legs, the way his t-shirt hugged her hips and barely skimmed the tops of her thighs. "But watching you do it in my shirt? Yeah, I'm not giving up this view."

Anya rolled her eyes, though her grin betrayed her amusement. She shook her head slowly, like she was trying not to smile and failing miserably. "You're shameless."

"Completely," he said, the smirk audible in his voice.

He slid in behind her, his body pressing against hers with familiar ease. His arms slipped around her waist, encircling her like he'd done it a hundred times before. His hands were warm, broad palms settling on the smooth skin of her stomach just under the fabric, fingers splaying slightly, possessive in a gentle way. She stilled for just a moment, enough to let the sensation wash over her, then melted back into him with a small, contented sigh.

"You smell like sleep and sex and toast," he murmured, leaning in closer until his lips hovered just above her skin. The words were a low vibration against her neck as he nuzzled the delicate spot beneath her ear. "Dangerous combination."

Anya giggled, the sound light and a little breathless as she reached back to swat at him with the spatula. "Let me finish before you distract me and I burn everything."

"No promises," Elias murmured against her skin, the words brushing warm across the shell of her ear.

His fingers had already begun a slow exploration, drifting lower, tracing the edge of the worn shirt that belonged to him but now felt undeniably hers. His touch was teasing, just skimming her thighs, the tips of his fingers drawing idle patterns there as if he had all the time in the world. The shirt lifted ever so slightly as he moved, and he caught a glimpse of bare skin that made something in his chest tighten.

"Especially," he said, voice thickening, "when you're walking around like this, like temptation in a t-shirt."

Anya bit her lip, trying not to react; but her body gave her away. She arched back ever so slightly, leaning into his warmth, her breath catching when his thumb brushed the soft skin just beneath her navel. His lips pressed to the side of her neck in a lingering kiss, slow and deliberate, as if to say, this is mine, not in ownership, but in awe.

The kitchen filled with the quiet hum of the morning, eggs still sizzling softly in the pan, the aroma of toast just beginning to brown, and beneath it all, the pulse of something more primal. The air was heavy with heat; not just from the stove, but from him, from her, from everything they weren't saying out loud.

Anya exhaled, barely above a whisper. "You're going to be the reason we end up eating burnt toast."

Elias grinned against her skin. "Worth it."

She tilted her head toward him just slightly, letting her lips graze his jaw, her voice a quiet hum. "Behave."

Elias grinned against her skin, his stubble grazing her temple. "That ship has sailed."

Anya elbowed him lightly in the ribs, barely suppressing a smile. He retreated with a dramatic groan, as though wounded, then made a swift and sneaky move plucking a piece of toast from the plate cooling on the counter.

"I saw that," Anya called over her shoulder, still by the kitchen.

"You didn't stop me," he replied smugly, already taking a bite mid-stride as he flopped onto the couch. "Which means it's fair game."

"Bold of you to assume I won't steal it back."

"I'm counting on it."

A few minutes later, they were side by side on the couch, warm plates balanced on their knees, a low-budget crime documentary humming in the background. The kind with too much narration and slow pans across eerie crime scene recreations. It wasn't about the content it was just something to fill the quiet.

Sunlight spilled through the gauzy curtains, casting faint stripes across the rug. The outside world murmured beyond the windows, distant laughter, the occasional bark of a dog, someone dragging a recycling bin across the pavement but inside, everything felt slow and soft and private.

Anya sat cross-legged, toes tucked under her thighs, her bare legs warm from the sunlit patches on the sofa. Elias sat beside her, his own plate mostly forgotten as he alternated between nibbling toast and watching her.

She didn't notice at first.

Her gaze flicked between the screen and her breakfast, occasionally dragging a corner of toast through the glossy yolk that pooled on her plate. She took small bites, eyes narrowing slightly when a gory reenactment flickered across the TV.

He didn't know what it was exactly that made it impossible to look away. Maybe it was the way her hair fell messily around her face. Or the calm confidence in how she moved. Or maybe it was just her, sitting in his shirt, with one knee drawn up and her mouth curved in faint amusement as a fake detective explained crime scene blood splatter.

Whatever it was, Elias didn't even pretend to watch the documentary anymore.

His eyes stayed on her.

She noticed eventually, and without turning fully, she asked, "Okay… why are you staring at me like you're planning something?"

His voice was low, gravel soft. "Because I am."

Anya raised one eyebrow, setting her plate down on the coffee table with a faint clink. Her eyes stayed on the screen, but her body turned just slightly toward him. "What kind of something?"

Elias didn't respond immediately. Instead, he shifted; subtle and slow until his thigh pressed against hers. The warmth of his skin touching hers sent a flicker through the air between them, like a wire pulled too tight.

He let his hand fall casually to her knee, fingers splayed lightly. Then, inch by inch, they began to move. Slow, deliberate trails against her skin. His fingertips skimmed upward, barely grazing, like the air between their bodies was electric and he was drawing sparks.

The fabric of his t-shirt; her shirt now, in this moment shifted slightly as he touched her. The hem rode up a little with the movement of her legs, exposing more of her thigh, more of that soft, warm skin he knew all too well from the night before. But now… it felt different. Charged. Not tentative like their first time. This wasn't discovering. This was revisiting and claiming.

"You're not even trying to be subtle," she said, still watching the screen, but her voice had dipped an octave.

"Why should I?" he murmured, fingers slipping a little higher, thumb brushing slow circles into the sensitive spot just above her knee. "It's just you and me. And we both know where this is going."

Her breath hitched, just slightly. "Do we?"

"Oh, I do," Elias said. "The second you sat down in my shirt like that… it was over for me."

His hand curved upward again, knuckles ghosting along her thigh, teasing but never rushing. He could feel her skin warm beneath his touch, a faint tension gathering in the muscles under his fingertips. She still hadn't looked at him fully, and it made it worse better. That she was trying to act unaffected. Trying to stay composed.

He leaned closer, his mouth barely a breath from her ear. His voice dropped into something darker, more intimate. "You know, if you keep pretending you're not into this, I might just have to prove how into you I am again."

That did it.

Anya finally turned her head, eyes locking on his. Her pupils had dilated just slightly, her breath slower, deeper. But her lips curved upward like she had him right where she wanted him.

"You're such a menace in the morning," she whispered, heat dancing behind her words.

"And you're irresistible in mine," Elias said, brushing his hand one last time across the inside of her thigh before slipping it away with deliberate cruelty.

She blinked, clearly thrown for a beat, and Elias just smirked, reaching lazily for his plate again.

The tension lingered in the space between them, like static after a lightning strike.

"Are you finished eating?"

Anya raised a brow, licking a bit of yolk from her thumb as she leaned back into the couch cushions. "Why?"

Elias didn't even pretend to be subtle his gaze swept over her like a slow flame, pausing where the hem of his shirt brushed her thighs. "Because I've been thinking about you in that damn shirt since you walked into the kitchen."

Her breath caught, barely noticeable unless you were listening for it. And he was. Always. "You've already seen me in less," she said, her tone casual, but her eyes flicked to his mouth.

"Yeah," he said, voice darker now. "But this..." His hand slipped higher along the inside of her thigh, his knuckles grazing heat. "This is worse somehow. Or better."

Her lips parted slightly, pink and kiss-bitten. "Elias…"

He didn't wait. He kissed her.

It started slow, soft lips against hers, tasting of cinnamon and sugar and something warm and entirely them. But it didn't stay gentle for long. The kiss deepened fast, breath hitching, mouths pressing harder as Anya twisted toward him, knees brushing his hips. The plates were forgotten, clinking quietly onto the carpeted floor. The TV flickered somewhere behind them, white noise to the growing urgency.

His body shifted, pushing her carefully down into the cushions. The fabric of the shirt bunched up between them, her bare skin sliding against the worn upholstery and his warm chest. His hand moved with memory now, no more hesitation. He mapped the curves of her like someone who had already memorized the route, but still wanted to rediscover it with reverence.

Anya's hands had disappeared beneath his shirt; her shirt fingertips dragging across his back, palms pressing into the curve of his waist. Her skin was hot, humming under his mouth as he moved to her neck, nipping lightly at her collarbone with the edge of his teeth.

"You're doing it again," she breathed, fingers gripping his sides, legs shifting beneath him. "Distracting me."

Elias chuckled low against her throat. "That's the goal."

The room smelled of toast and coffee and morning warmth… but also of them. Of skin and sweat, sleep and sex. That unmistakable scent of arousal was in the air now, thick and unashamed. It threaded between them like incense, grounding the moment in something physical, something raw.

He hooked a finger under the hem of the shirt, brushing against the side of her ribs, waiting only a second before meeting her eyes. "Off?"

Her nod came immediately, eager, breathless, sure.

The fabric disappeared, tossed carelessly behind him. His hands were on her again, on the familiar terrain of her hips and waist and breasts, skin still holding the warmth of the sun and the electric pulse of him.

They didn't leave the couch. There was something deliciously unfiltered about staying right there; half-dressed, sprawled across the cushions while daylight danced across their skin. No shadows to hide behind. No covers. Just them.

He kissed her deeper this time, like he had nowhere else to be. His mouth moved down her body, and she arched into him like she needed every point of contact. They moved together in a rhythm that felt effortless now, fluid, practiced, but still hungry. Still wild.

Her legs wrapped around him, pulling him closer, until there was no space left between them. His name slipped past her lips between gasps, her hands tangling in his hair, tugging gently when he hit a spot that made her toes curl.

Elias grinned into her skin when she cursed under her breath, her hips lifting in response. "You okay?" he murmured, breathless.

"Better than okay," she managed, her voice hoarse, fingers digging lightly into the muscles of his back. "Don't stop."

So he didn't.

There wasn't much talking after that, just the quiet thud of bodies shifting on the couch, the occasional creak of the frame beneath them, and the delicious, messy symphony of shared pleasure. The sunlight poured in through the curtains like a spotlight, catching the sheen of sweat along their spines, the flush across their cheeks, the shadows their limbs made as they tangled and twisted together.

Eventually, everything slowed. Breathing leveled out. Limbs relaxed.

Elias collapsed beside her, one arm immediately wrapping around her waist as he pulled her into him. Their bodies were sticky with sweat and warmth, hair tousled, chests still rising and falling in sync.

Anya laughed softly, breath catching on the tail end. "I'm never gonna look at this couch the same way again."

Elias groaned, letting his head drop against the cushion. "Me neither. Kinda sorry we didn't at least pause the show."

They turned to glance at the screen.

The documentary had moved on entirely, a new episode halfway through, monotone narration droning about another crime scene like nothing had happened.

Anya chuckled, eyes crinkling with sleepy delight. "Guess we'll have to start over."

Elias smiled lazily, brushing a damp strand of hair away from her face, fingertips trailing down her jaw with reverence. "Or we could just... stay like this."

She let herself melt into his side, head on his shoulder, skin still humming from everything they'd just shared.

"I like that idea better," she whispered.

And they stayed just like that. Warm, sated, and utterly content.