He nods. “Crystal.”
For a moment, it almost feels like peace.
Then the door buzzer cuts through the calm, shrill and abrupt.
Leo looks up, brows drawn. “Expecting someone?”
My stomach twists. “No.”
An envelope slides under the door, crisp against the hardwood. I bend to pick it up, already dreading the weight of whatever it is. Mrs. Patel’s neat handwriting fills the front:Co-Tenancy Agreement – Minimum Four Weeks.
I stare at it, my pulse spiking. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Leo meets my eyes, quiet amusement flickering behind his. “Guess I’m harder to evict than you thought.”
The paper crinkles in my hand. Four weeks. The words thud in my chest, heartbeat loud in the sudden quiet—too close, too long, and not nearly enough distance between us.
The rules suddenly feel a lot less solid.
Chapter 4
Fuel to the Fire
Leo
Morning startslike a collision instead of a sunrise.
There’s music somewhere—low, jazzy, the kind that makes you want to move slower. The smell of ginger hits next, bright and sharp, cutting through the fog in my head. Then I see her.
Sage moves through the kitchen. Each step flows into the next, graceful and unhurried, like she’s choreographed it—barefoot, hair up, humming under her breath while steam curls off a pot on the stove. The fridge is a riot of color when she opens it: containers stacked, every one labeled in neat handwriting. Her version of control looks a lot prettier than mine.
“Coffee’s ready,” she says without looking back. “Or are you one of those athletes who only drinks sludge and protein powder?”
“Depends who’s asking,” I say, grabbing a mug. “The chef or the roommate?”
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Both. The chef’s judging, the roommate’s pretending not to care.”
The corner of my mouth tugs. “Honest of you.”
“Occupational hazard.”
I take a sip, and the ginger steam catches in my throat. “What’s that smell?”
“Bone broth,” she says. “Anti-inflammatory, full of collagen, good for recovery.”
I grunt. “Fuel.”
She turns, wooden spoon in hand like a weapon. “Fuel can taste good. You just haven’t given it a chance.”
“Pretty sure good food doesn’t win games.”
“Neither does bad food,” she fires back. “Ask your knees.”
That gets a short laugh out of me, and she grins like she’s won something. It shouldn’t feel like flirting, but it does. The air hums with it—something light but dangerous.
She gestures to the counter. “Sit. You’re my test subject today.”
I raise an eyebrow but take the seat. She slides a bowl in front of me: golden quinoa studded with citrus and something green. “Turmeric, lemon, pepper, cherry. For sleep, inflammation, mood.”
