“My, my, Miss Daphne, such language. Is that allowed in these sacred halls of knowledge?”
“When warranted.” But despite herself, she smiled. Begrudgingly. Damn him again. “Alright, demon. I’m off in thirty.”
~*~
Lunch became more. So much more. So often.
Somewhere between his smug grins and their second Christmas movie marathon, where he insistedDie Hardwas festive canon and she refused to back down fromWhite Christmas, something shifted.
It wasn’t sudden, but slow, like sugar dissolving in cold tea. Unseen, but unmistakably there.
They talked. A lot. Sometimes curled on her worn couch under mismatched blankets. Sometimes, while shelving books, side by side like old coworkers who’d finally realized they liked each other. Possibly.
He told her about the cabin he kept in the Norwegian wilderness. Tiny, remote, and surrounded by snow so thick it buried the world into silence. How he’d bought it decades ago because the aurora reminded him that some things in the universe were still beautiful and unpredictable in a good way. He said he’d like toshow it to her someday, and to that, she had had no comeback. Because wanting to see it was enticing.
She told him about the library.
Not the usual interview answer, but the real one. Sort of. How she chose the job because she needed the peace, the order, and the predictability. Which was all one hundred percent true. She didn’t mention the rest, though. Not how books had saved her as a kid, when the walls of her house were too loud and too cruel. Not how she’d learned that in a story, you could control the ending. Rewrite the script and walk away whole. How it gave her hope one day she would. How working here wasn’t just about loving books, but about guarding the door for others who needed an escape too.
She didn’t tell him that. And he didn’t press for more.
Just like she didn’t ask what he was holding back. Because therewassomething, some hesitation behind the charm, some truth coiled under the surface. She felt it like a prickle along her nerves, but she wasn’t ready to pry yet.
If she could have her secrets, he could keep his.
Up to a point.
She would find out eventually, as she always did. For now, what she knew was enough to wade through that first wave of dizzying curiosity. That early phase where every new story, every offhand comment, every too-long look felt like discovering something precious about a person you actually, unexpectedly, enjoy.
They hadn’t even kissed.
Like everything Hunter, it was a clashing mix of maddening relief.
The demon could control himself. For all his charm, for all the smirks and perfectly delivered innuendos, Hunter had never pushed. Not once. Not even when she baited him, tested him. Not even when the air between them grew so thick with tension she could practically bite it. They were two fighters circling eachother in the ring, except they were arguing about Christmas movie rankings and pretending their souls weren’t buzzing every time they got too close.
No kiss. Barely a touch. Just heat, unsaid things, and the unbearable weight ofalmost.
So, really, it was perfectly reasonable to ask him to spend Christmas with her. Totally normal. Just two people cooking, eating, watching another movie. Chilling. And who knew, maybe there’d be a Christmas miracle. One where she finally felt safe enough to close the distance and kiss him. Heavens knew she wanted to. And because the way he looked at her sometimes, like she was both a puzzle and a promise, made her believe he was just waiting for her to say the word.
Chapter 4
They ended up cooking a small, honest feast. Nothing fancy, simply the type of meal that came together with mismatched pans, laughter, and a lot of improvisation. Neither of them was what you’d call gifted in the kitchen. Hunter claimed he was an emotional forager, which, once decoded, meant he used his magic to blink around the world at will and eat whatever struck his mood. She didn’t press for more. He volunteered just enough for her to picture him sipping espresso in Rome one morning and chasing street food in Seoul by evening. It sounded wild and free and self-indulgent–exactly like him.
It didn’t take a professional chef to make dinner work, though. Roasted rosemary potatoes, pan-seared salmon with a buttery glaze, a half-successful green bean almondine, and one spectacular baked brie with cranberry sauce that turned out to be their collective masterpiece.
There was enough alcohol to make her feel warm and relaxed, but nothing more. She didn’t do drunk. Didn’t care for the loss of control. But half a glass of mulled wine in, and she felt... looser. Softer. Like maybe she could breathe a little more deeply without everything tightening up inside her.
They exchanged dumb gifts after dinner, the kind that people gave when they hadn’t known each other long enough to go deep, but had paid enough attention to try. She gave him a leather-bound notebook etched with a dreamcatcher on the cover, “So you can pretend to be mysterious in coffee shops,” she’d teased.
“I am mysterious.”
“No, you’re hot and swaggering. It’s a different thing.”
“So, youhavebeen looking.” His grin was lazy and lethal. “Good to know all this swagger’s being appreciated.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“How you wound me.” He tapped the notebook. “Guess I’ll write about the mysterious part, and my heartbreak, in here. Just so you don’t forget, I’ve got layers.”
