“Right.” My voice comes out low, steady. Too steady. The pulse in my wrist hammers, and I grip the counter again, fingers whitening.
For some reason, I can’t shake the creeping sense that everything safe in this kitchen could change in a heartbeat— the feeling that something’s about to shift — that this ordinary morning has tilted, just slightly, into something else.
Chapter 8
Combustion Point
Leo
The smell hits first— garlic, onions, and something a little too close to burnt. I step out of the bathroom, towel slung low around my hips, steam still clinging to my skin. The shower fog trails behind me as I rake a hand through my hair, dripping water onto the floor. For a second, I think maybe the building’s on fire.
Then I see Sage at the stove.
She’s standing over a pan, spatula clutched tight in her hand and shoulders locked. The sound of metal clanging against metal is sharp, rhythmic, almost aggressive. The pan jerks; the scent of scorched onions thickens. She doesn’t even glance up when I step into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice rough from the steam and sleep.
“Nothing.” Her tone is clipped, quick. She bangs the pan again, like punctuation.
“Doesn’t smell like nothing.” I lean against the counter, watching the set of her shoulders, the way her jaw ticks when she flips something in the pan. “You’re cooking like you’re mad at it.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The words snap, sharp enough to sting. I blink, taken aback. She’s never used that tone on me before — at least, not like this. Not loaded with something she’s clearly trying not to say.
“Okay,” I murmur, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Fine.”
But she doesn’t relax. Her movements get even tighter, more deliberate, like she’s trying to scrub the tension out through the food. A strand of hair slips free, brushing her cheek, and she blows it away impatiently. My gaze lingers longer than it should — on the curve of her neck, the quick rise and fall of her breathing. I shouldn’t notice. But I do.
I move around her toward the fridge, and she shifts at the same time. We bump shoulders. The contact is brief but electric — heat sears through my shoulder, the scent of her soap cutting through garlic and steam, my pulse tripping hard enough to make me forget what I came for — skin to skin, heat meeting heat.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No, it’s fine,” she says, voice too bright. She sidesteps, but the kitchen’s too small. I can feel the frustration radiating off her like static.
The quiet between us stretches, heavy and awkward. I glance down — my hockey bag sits in front of the oven, right where she’s trying to cook. Of course.
She follows my gaze. “Seriously?” she says, eyebrows lifting. “You dumped that there?”
“It’s just a bag.”
“It’s blocking the oven.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tightening. “I’ll move it in a sec.”
“You’ve been saying that for two days.”
Her voice has that brittle edge again, and something in me snaps back, reflexive. “You’ve been rearranging the entire kitchen. I can’t find a damn thing on the shelves anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she fires back, turning to face me fully now. “Did myspicesdisrupt your routine?”
I stare at her, dripping water onto the tile, towel still knotted low at my hips, the smell of garlic hanging thick between us. It’s ridiculous — the argument, the timing, the way her cheeks flush bright with anger. But underneath it, something else hums. Hotter. Louder.
And I can’t tell if I want to win the fight… or close the space between us.
It starts stupid — like most fights do. My bag, her spices, the tiny kitchen that feels smaller every time we’re in it together. But every word lands with more weight than it should.
She slams a drawer shut. “You’re acting like you live here.”
