Chapter 70 Heaven
The kitchen had become Jasmine’s sanctuary.
Sunlight poured in through the wide windows, casting warm stripes of gold across the marble countertops and the tiled floor. Outside, the world still felt dangerous, uncertain, full of threats she could not see. But in here—between simmering pots and chopping boards—there was only the rhythm of ordinary life. The simple, grounding act of cooking.
Jasmine stood by the counter with her sleeves rolled up, a loose strand of hair escaping her tie and falling against her cheek. A wooden chopping board lay before her, covered with half-moon slices of onions, chopped carrots, and bright green bell peppers.
She moved carefully, the knife tapping against the board in a steady rhythm.
Behind her, Damien leaned against the doorframe, watching. He had never thought he would find peace in something as mundane as this. He had faced gunfire without blinking, negotiated with men who could kill him without consequence, and yet the sight of Jasmine standing barefoot in his kitchen, humming softly while she cooked, unraveled him completely.
She wore one of his shirts—far too big for her—its hem brushing her thighs. The sleeves hung loosely from her arms. The scent of garlic and herbs mixed with the faint sweetness of her perfume.
“You’re staring again,” Jasmine said without turning around.
Damien smirked. “I can’t help it.”
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “You’re supposed to be helping me, not supervising like a boss.”
“I am helping,” he said. “I’m moral support.”
“Moral support doesn’t cut vegetables.”
He pushed off the doorframe and walked toward her, slow and deliberate, as if approaching something fragile.
Jasmine returned her attention to the chopping board. “Can you stir the stew? It’s been bubbling for a while.”
Instead of going to the stove, Damien stepped directly behind her. Before she could protest, his arms slid around her waist, warm and solid. He pulled her back gently against his chest, burying his face into the crook of her neck. His breath brushed her skin, and she shivered.
“Damien,” she laughed, her voice breathless.
“You’re going to make me cut my finger.”
“I would catch you before that happens,” he murmured.
His lips brushed her skin, slow and lingering. His hands rested on her hips, grounding and possessive without being rough.
Jasmine giggled, trying to keep hold of the knife. “You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told that.”
She leaned back into him for a moment, enjoying the warmth of his body and the rare softness of him like this—unguarded, domestic, human.
“Turn the stew,” she said. “It’ll burn if you don’t.”
He groaned dramatically. “You’re banishing me already?”
“Yes. Go. Before the tomatoes commit suicide.” she said, a light playfulness to her tone.
With a sigh, he released her and walked to the stove.
The pot sat on the burner, bubbling angrily beneath its lid. He lifted it slightly, peering inside.
“It smells dangerous,” he muttered.
“That’s called seasoning,” Jasmine replied, glaring at his antics. “Stir it.”
He grabbed the wooden spoon and pushed it into the stew. The moment he lifted the lid fully, oil popped violently, sizzling like an angry serpent. A portion splashed onto his hand.
“Shit—!"
He jerked back with a sharp hiss, dropping the spoon. Jasmine spun around instantly.
“Damien!” she gasped, rushing to him. “What happened?”
“The pot attacked me,” he said through clenched teeth.
She grabbed his wrist and pulled him toward the sink. “Come here. Hurry.”
She turned on the cold water and placed his hand under the stream, holding it there firmly.
“Does it still hurt?” she asked, panic lacing her voice.
“It stings.”
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I should have checked it myself. I shouldn’t have let you—”
Damien frowned and gently pulled his hand away from the water.
“Jasmine.”
She looked up at him, eyes wide. “It’s my fault.”
He stepped closer and wrapped his uninjured arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him.
“Never apologize for asking me to be with you in the kitchen,” he said quietly. “Do you understand me?”
Her lips parted slightly.
“You don’t have to protect me from everything,” he continued. “I want to be here. I want to do normal things with you. Even if the stew tries to kill me.”
That earned a shaky laugh from her. She nodded. “Okay.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. Then her cheek. Then the other cheek. Over and over until she started giggling again.
“Stop,” she laughed, trying to push him away. “I need to finish cooking.”
“You’re smiling again. Mission accomplished.”
Eventually, she returned to the stove while Damien hovered close, pretending to supervise but mostly just watching her with softened eyes.
She served the spaghetti into two plates, twirling the noodles carefully. Then she ladled the thick, rich stew over them. The scent filled the entire house—tomatoes, basil, garlic, and spice mingling into something warm and inviting.
Damien entered the dining area with his eyes closed, following the smell like a man enchanted.
“I can smell it from the hallway,” he said. “I would follow this scent into war.”
Jasmine laughed. “Open your eyes before you walk into the wall.”
He did—and walked straight to her instead.
His hands found her waist. He leaned down and inhaled deeply. “You smell like heaven.”
She laughed. “It’s food.”
“It’s you.”
They ate together in comfortable silence, knees touching beneath the table. Jasmine watched him enjoy every bite, and something inside her loosened. This—this quiet, shared meal—felt like something real.
Afterward, they curled up on the couch with a movie playing softly. Jasmine lay half against him, a small plate of pastries resting on her lap. Crumbs fell onto her thighs. Cream stained the corner of her mouth.
Damien noticed.
He leaned closer instead of using his hand. His lips brushed hers, slow and teasing, and then he kissed the corner of her mouth, licking the cream away gently.
Jasmine froze.
Her face burned. “You always do that”
He smiled against her lips. “i can't help myself tesoro, your mouth makes everything sweeter.”
She bit her lower lip, trying not to kiss him back too deeply. He felt the same tension, the same restraint.
They stayed like that for a long while—watching the movie, breathing together, his fingers stroking her arm, her head resting against his chest.