PREVIEW
... of something... disgustingly delicious.
The window was open, letting in the evening wind as it danced through the curtains. It brushed across my skin, but the real irritation in the room wasn't the breeze—it was her.
Fiona.
Wearing an apron. Humming like this was her home. Like she was Yuuta's wife.
Tch.
Meanwhile, that idiot Yuuta was still in bed, his fever annoyingly stubborn but not fatal. He looked peaceful, wrapped up like some fragile mortal burrito ...
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