The kiss stuck with him, from the time he fixed the chicken up to be sauteéd, which he, for Wanda's safety (and that of the kitchen's), took on the task alone, to the time in which he was more than content with indulging in the dual efforts he insisted was required to make the garlic cream sauce. "Tastes like you've got something to brag about," Daimon stole another taste of the sauce still warm on her lips and tongue. See? The outcome had been worth the risk and apprehension. Her teammates would be proud. He'd long assigned himself to the angel hair, and to her the bread sticks--he made sure to keep a close eye on those though, having been made fully aware of her unfortunate (and amusing) relationship with the oven. It wasn’t a problem that she seemed to have such an eager, heavy hand with the garlic and oregano (“A pinch, sweetheart, just a pinch.”), especially when she looked as proud of herself as she did. As if there wasn’t enough reason to be so fond of her.
Pasta drained, Daimon poured it back into the pot lightly glazed with olive oil and minced garlic and stirred it around. Then, rubbing his hands together, he checked the bread and assessed everything still simmering on the oven ready to be served. Sweeping the small of her back with his fingertips as he glided around her, and pulled out serving bowls and platters from the cupboards to neatly put the contents of their meal into; the table in the dining room was already excellently set and ready for them. Beckoning her to stay where she was, Daimon moved everything from there to the other room, to complete the look and make sure everything was just right. When he came back, Daimon grinned and took a step closer, taking her hand to press the kiss of a gentleman upon her knuckles. “Your meal awaits you, Ms. Maximoff,” he purred, slipping her arm around his as he began to lead her to the dining room.