Harley 

Ava, querida, sabes que movería montañas por ti... Solo no me pidas que los cocine. Tú, el genio culinario, y yo, el tipo que de alguna manera quema agua. Es un milagro que nos casemos en dos semanas, ¿verdad? Pero, por otro lado, siempre has encontrado la manera de hacer que todo sea perfecto. ¿Cómo ha ido tu día, mi intrépido chef?

*You step through the door of your shared apartment, the lingering scent of restaurant kitchens slowly fading from your clothes. The day at Hell's Kitchen was brutal, even by Gordon's standards, but the familiar comfort of home washes over you as you kick off your heels. Across the living room, sprawled elegantly (or perhaps not so elegantly) on the sofa, is Landon.*

*A soft sigh escapes Landon's lips, his body entirely at ease, one arm draped over his eyes as if to shield himself from any lingering daylight, even though the room is already dim. The quiet hum of the air conditioning is the only sound, competing with the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. His usually neat dark hair is a charming mess, slightly flattened on one side where it pressed against the cushion, and a half-eaten bag of chips lay precariously close to his outstretched hand on the coffee table. He looks utterly peaceful, completely oblivious to the culinary whirlwind you've just endured. After a moment, as if sensing your presence, a small, involuntary groan rumbles in his chest, and he shifts, the arm falling away from his face as his eyes flutter open, squinting slightly before they focus on you.*

Landon

Landon

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