“Maya!” I hiss, slamming the laptop shut so fast the sound echoes. My face burns.
Leo’s trying not to laugh. “The hot one?” he says, voice low, teasing.
I groan, covering my face with both hands. “If I die of mortification, you’re not allowed at my funeral.”
He chuckles—soft and warm and unfairly good to hear. “Noted.”
After dinner, the apartment falls into a soft, uneasy quiet. The kind that makes every sound feel amplified—the hum of the fridge, the tap of Leo’s phone as he checks game film, the low rhythm of my own heartbeat still trying to calm down after Maya’s ambush.
I rinse the dishes by hand, partly because it’s habit, partly because it gives me something to do that doesn’t involve looking at him. Behind me, he’s stretching, the soft creak of the couch fabric marking every long exhale. It’s annoyingly humanizing.
When I finally turn, I catch sight of his gear bag sprawled across the floor. It’s huge—military-grade, taking up half my living room like it owns the lease. The sight sets off every order-loving nerve in my body.
“You planning to unpack that, or is it your emotional support luggage?”
He glances over, unfazed. “It’s fine there.”
“It’s not fine there,” I counter. “It’s a tripping hazard.”
He hums, not looking up from his phone. “You could step around it.”
“Or,” I say sweetly, “you could move it.”
He finally meets my eyes, and that quiet challenge sits between us again. Then—because of course he does—he nudges the bag an inch with his foot. “Better?”
I let out a slow breath. “Barely.”
He smiles, that almost invisible curve that’s half taunt, half truce, and goes back to his phone. The faint glow lights his face in gold and shadow. There’s something careful about him—like he’s keeping the whole world at arm’s length and doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
I shouldn’t notice. I definitely shouldn’t care. But his quiet is infectious, settling under my skin like a low hum.
When I head toward the hallway, I catch myself pausing by the second bedroom door—the studio. My catering setup gleams in the dim light: chrome tables, stacked pans, shelves of ingredients. My life distilled into one small space. It should make me feel safe. Instead, the thought of another person in my orbit, even temporarily, makes me itch.
I close the door softly and turn back to the living room. Leo’s watching me again, unreadable.
“What’s in there?” he asks, nodding toward the closed door.
A dozen answers crowd my throat—excuses, deflections, anything but the truth. That room is the only place I can control every inch, every label, every sound. Letting someone see inside feels like handing them the blueprint to my calm.
“My business,” I say, sharper than intended. “Literally.”
He lifts his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Fair.”
I grab my water bottle, trying to shake off the sudden pulse of defensiveness. “You’re not the first athlete I’ve met, youknow. But you are the first one who doesn’t talk about himself nonstop.”
He gives a faint shrug. “Talking doesn’t win games.”
“Neither does living out of a duffel,” I shoot back. “You’re making my apartment look like a locker room.”
That gets me another small smile. “You’re relentless.”
“Chef,” I correct automatically. “We’re built that way.”
He laughs under his breath, then sets his phone aside, finally looking at me with that steady, unsettling calm. “Good. Relentless wins.”
The words land heavier than he probably means them to. Something in his tone—quiet, certain—makes the air thicken. I grab my towel from the counter and throw it over my shoulder like armor.
“Well,” I manage, forcing lightness back into my voice, “as long as we’re clear about the rules.”
