On the walk home, Slade walks close enough that the heat of his body melts every chill before it touches me.
I pretend I don’t notice. He pretends he doesn’t know that I noticed.
Which… makes for averyquiet but charged walk home. Snow starts falling, little trickles of flakes at first, that somehow seem to get thicker and denser the closer we get to the apartment.
By the time we cross the threshold of the small alcove the building manager has the audacity to call a lobby, it’s coming down really hard.
Slade takes the lead, and I follow him up the stairs trying to ignore how right this feels. The moment we step inside my apartment, Newt rockets across the floor like a sentient puffball and vaults onto the kitchen island.
He stares at Slade. Then meows—twice. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the brat rubs his entire face against Slade’s forearm.
“Unbelievable,” I say.
Slade scratches under Newt’s chin. “He has impeccable judgment.”
“Traitor,” I whisper at the cat.
Newt blinks slowly. Translation?You’re welcome.
Slade rolls up his sleeves—forearms cut from marble, faint runes glowing under the skin like embers—and starts cooking with terrifying competence. He moves like the kitchen belongs tohim. Oil sizzles. Garlic blooms fragrant and golden. Tomatoes soften in the pan until they release a sweet, bright steam. He even slices basil with the kind of precision that suggests he’s gutted a demon using similar technique.
I lean against the counter, trying not to stare and failing miserably.
“You’re watching,” he says.
“You’re cooking,” I counter. “Maybe, I’m checking to make sure you didn’t poison the food.”
He grins, “Liar.” He scans my face. “And you’re flushed.”
“It’s warm in here.”
“It isn’t.”
I shove him with my eyes. He laughs—the deep, dark kind that curls into my spine. “Sit,” he says.
I obey.
He plates the tortellini delicately, drizzles something intoxicating over the top, and places thesteaming dish in front of me with all the gravity of a vow. I take a bite. It’s sinful how good this is.
It’s like fucking magic.
Slade leans his hip against the counter, watching for my reaction. I hate how my eyes flutter closed, how a tiny sound escapes my throat, and how hehearsit.
He comes closer. His voice a low rasp. “I like watching you eat, your expression always shows exactly what you’re thinking. It’s…sexy.”
“Stop saying things like that,” I groan, flushing from head to toe all over again.
“Why?”
“Because they work.”
His smile burns all the way through me.
We eat by candlelight, close enough that his knee brushes mine under the table, close enough that the bond hums with every uneven breath I take. Talking comfortably for what feels like hours. He tells me tales of what it was like growing up in hell—news flash, it’s no picnic—andall the embarrassing shit you usually save for your fourth or fifth date. You know, like amonthof dating.
After dinner, we rinse and soak the dishes, laughing and joking like it’s the most natural thing in the world. When we’re finished, I insist on a movie.
Slade insists on sitting beside me. Newt insists on sitting in Slade’s lap.Traitor.
