June POV
Who would've thought that Justin—Justin, of all people—could be romantic?
I mean, sure, I always knew he was hot. Dangerous. Mysterious. And yeah, maybe a little unhinged. But romantic? That wasn't even on the list. Yet here he was, in my kitchen, barefoot in sweatpants and a stupidly cute apron that said "Kiss the Cook," making dinner like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And fuck me if it wasn't working.
He was hot, mysterious, could make anyone's knees buckle with just a look, but this? This domestic, apron-wearing, garlic-sautéing version of him?
Fuck.
If he wanted, he could destroy me in the sweetest way possible.
He was moving around my kitchen like he owned the place, sleeves rolled up, hoodie now discarded, exposing those sin-worthy forearms that should be illegal. He had this casual confidence, like this wasn't his first time doing this… like he hadn't just pinned me to my own counter and kissed the sanity out of me.
