And just like that, he walks out, leaving the faint smell of turmeric and something unspoken behind.
By dinner, the day’s rough edges have smoothed into a wary kind of truce. Leo sits at the table scrolling through his phone while I plate his meal—citrus quinoa, garlicky greens, and salmon rich in magnesium. It’s my version of an apology: quiet, edible, not labeled as one.
He looks up when I set the plate down. “You didn’t have to cook for me tonight.”
“I cook because it’s what I do,” I say, keeping my tone even. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
The corner of his mouth tugs. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
We eat in silence at first. The rhythmic scrape of forks fills the space between us. Then my phone buzzes beside my plate, lighting up with Maya’s name and a text preview:Guess your neighbor’s famous. Imagine the rent you could charge.
Leo glances at the screen before I can flip it over. “Friend of yours?”
“Coworker,” I answer quickly. “She likes to stir.”
He hums, noncommittal, but I can feel his eyes on me even after I swipe the message away. The heat creeps up my neck. “You’re all over the sports blogs, by the way,” I add, forcing casualness. “Apparently your penthouse disaster is national news.”
His expression darkens. “They don’t have anything better to write about.”
“Clickbait doesn’t need better,” I mutter. “It just needs attention.”
He doesn’t reply, and for a moment, I almost regret mentioning it. The air tightens again—until I notice the way his fork pauses midair, his gaze flicking toward my phone when it buzzes again.
The contact name flashes across the screen. My stomach knots, a cold pulse rolling through me as I stare at it for half a second too long before forcing myself to look away.Asshole.
My pulse trips. I fumble for the phone, flipping it face-down. “Spam,” I say too fast.
Leo’s brow furrows. “Spam that knows your name?”
I force a laugh, brittle at the edges. “Persistent spam.”
He studies me for a beat too long, like he can tell I’m lying. But then he leans back in his chair, letting it go. “You should get that number blocked.”
“I’m working on it.” The words feel heavy on my tongue.
We finish the meal in silence. When he stands to clear his plate, I tell him to leave it. He hesitates, then obeys.
After he disappears down the hall, I exhale and reach for the phone. My reflection stares back from the black screen, pale and strained.
I tell myself it’s fine. That it’s nothing.
But when the phone lights up again—Asshole calling—my hand shakes hard enough that I almost drop it.
I hit silence and press my palm flat to the counter, forcing air into my lungs until the buzzing stops.
Through the thin wall, I can hear Leo moving around—the steady thud of his footsteps grounding me even as fear snakes up my spine. The contrast shouldn’t make sense: comfort wrapped around the edges of panic.
It’s ridiculous, but for the first time in months, the sound of someone else’s presence feels like protection.
Chapter 6
Bad Blood
Leo
The air slicescold when I step onto the ice — clean, sharp, almost metallic. My breath fogs against my visor as I line up for the faceoff, stick pressed flat, every muscle wired tight. Across from me, Grayson Locke smirks, the sound of his visor tapping against his helmet as he exhales a sharp laugh, like he’s been waiting all week for this. Same predatory gleam, same cocky tilt of his helmet. The guy’s a walking headline, and he knows it.
The ref drops the puck.
