I snort. “You invited me to.”
“Temporarily,” she snaps. “Until your palace dries out.”
My temper flares, quick and mean. “Right. Wouldn’t want the king to sully the peasant quarters too long, huh?”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.”
We’re close now, and every instinct in me splits—half screaming to step back, half daring me to see what happens if I don’t. The kitchen’s narrow, but it feels like it’s closing in on us. Her chest rises and falls fast. Mine does too. Steam from the pan fogs between us, curling in the charged air.
“Just admit it,” I say, voice low. “You liked having the space to yourself until I showed up.”
Her chin tips up, defiant. “Of course I did. You take up oxygen, Leo.”
That earns a humorless laugh from me. “You’re not exactly quiet either.”
“Excuse me?” Her voice climbs an octave. “You’re the one leaving gear in every corner! I’m one pair of skates away from tripping into the ER.”
“Maybe if you stopped moving everything?—”
“Maybe if you respected boundaries!”
The wordboundarieshangs there, sharp and echoing. I freeze, because suddenly this isn’t about spices or bags or kitchens. It’s about something deeper — the tension that’s been simmering since the first night I stayed here. The push and pull neither of us will name.
She realizes it too. I see it in the way her breath catches, the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her face before she masks it with irritation.
I take a step forward without thinking. She doesn’t move back.
We’re inches apart now, heat radiating between us. Her pulse flickers in her throat, quick and visible. My towel slips slightly at my hip, but I don’t move to fix it. Her gaze flickers down for half a second — half a second too long.
“This isn’t working,” she says, but her voice falters halfway through.
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning in just enough for her breath to brush my skin. “I noticed.”
Her eyes snap to mine, full of fire and confusion and something dangerously close to want.
The argument doesn’t end. It just shifts — from words to silence, from logic to tension, from anger to something that feels a lot like hunger.
She doesn’t back away. Neither do I.
The silence between us hums, thick and electric, like the second before a storm breaks. Her hands are still tight at her sides, but I can see the tremor in her fingers. The pulse flutteringin her throat. She’s angry, yeah — but there’s something else under it. Something I’ve been trying not to see for weeks.
I take another step, and she bumps against the counter. Nowhere left to go.
“Leo—” Her voice cracks my name in half, like it’s both a warning and a plea.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But the sight of her — cheeks flushed, eyes wide, chest rising fast — knocks the thought clean out of me. I brace my palms on the counter behind her, caging her in without touching. Steam still curls from the pan, the smell of garlic wrapping around us like heat.
“You drive me insane,” I say, low and rough.
Her breath hitches. “Then maybe you should move out.”
“Maybe I can’t.” I don’t even know what I mean by it until it’s out.
Her lips part like she’s going to snap back, but I don’t give her the chance. I lean in, just enough for my breath to catch hers. She stiffens — and then melts. Just a fraction. But it’s enough.
She shoves at my chest once, hard. “Don’t.”
