His gaze flicks to the rent notice lurking beneath a cookbook on the counter. I slide the book over it before he can pretend he didn’t see. My cheeks heat. He doesn’t comment.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, tapping the Post-it. “We treat this like a professional kitchen. Respect the station. Call your corners. Don’t surprise the chef.”
He lifts his mug again, eyes meeting mine over the rim. “I’ll try not to.”
The marker squeaks as I add one last bullet I didn’t plan:No guests.The letters look louder than the room feels. He tracks the stroke of my hand, then gives a small, understanding nod that makes something in my chest unclench and clench at the same time.
Boundaries established. Lines drawn. If only my pulse would get the memo.
When I come back from my delivery route that afternoon, something feels off. The apartment smells like soap and quiet—the kind of stillness that’s too deliberate to be accidental.
Then I see it: my spice rack.
All fifty-eight jars, alphabetized.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, dropping my tote by the door. The man reorganized my soul.
I stand there for a second, torn between admiration and homicidal intent. He didn’t even get creative—just lined everything up like a grocery store shelf. Cumin next to currypowder, saffron between salt and sesame. It’s clinical. It’s horrifying. It’s… kind of neat.
“Voss!” I shout toward the living room.
He appears from the hallway, damp hair, fresh shirt, the faint scent of gym soap following him. “You’re home early.”
“You’re alive to notice. That’s lucky for you.” I point to the rack. “Explain yourself.”
He glances at the spices, then at me, all calm composure. “They were out of order.”
“They were organized by cuisine,” I shoot back, voice rising. Short. Sharp. Each word a spark meant to sting, to cover the ridiculous thrill of arguing with him,” I say, hands flying up. “You don’t alphabetize flavor.”
He crosses his arms. “You alphabetize everything else. Logical progression.”
“Logical? You put za’atar next to allspice. That’s a hate crime in at least three cultures.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—he’s fighting a smile. “Seems efficient to me.”
“Efficient,” I repeat, stalking past him to start rearranging everything back. “You’re a robot in athlete form.”
“I prefer consistent,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Predictable. Order makes life easier.”
“Order makes food boring,” I shoot back, sliding paprika where it belongs—next to chili, where it can be understood. “You can’t taste life alphabetically.”
He hums under his breath, low and amused. “Hurricane Winslow," he murmurs, eyes flicking over me with a quick breath that stirs the air between us".
I freeze mid-reach. “What did you just call me?”
He’s not smirking now, just watching, eyes steady. “That’s what you are. Blow in, rearrange everything, then act like the chaos was always here.”
Something about the name—half insult, half something else—sets my pulse racing. “Careful,” I warn. “Hurricanes leave damage.”
“I can handle wind,” he says quietly.
For one beat, we just stare at each other, the air between us tight and charged. Then I roll my shoulders back, break the moment, and grab a lemon from the counter. “You hungry?”
He glances toward the clock. “Always.”
“Good. I’ll show you what seasoning tastes like.”
