That made her blink. She didn’t have a snarky comeback for that. Just stared at me like she was trying to decide whether I’d just lied or grown a second head.
I walked toward the kitchen without waiting. She followed. Curious, wary.
The space was as clean and sharp as the rest of the house—black marble counters, matte gray cabinets, steel appliances that practically gleamed. It wasn’t warm. But it was efficient.
She paused near the island, her hand brushing along the cool stone surface.
“You know,” she said slowly, “for a professional hockey player, this house is surprisingly…” She looked around again, brow furrowed. “Basic.”
I opened the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs, a few vegetables. “I didn’t realize I had a princess on my hands.”
She snorted. “No, it’s…” Her voice softened. “I like it.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
She was still watching the room like it might reveal a secret. But there was something new in her expression now—something that wasn’t suspicion.
I smirked. Just a little.
“Good,” I said. “I hate clutter.”
I cracked an egg cleanly into the pan. She leaned against the counter, arms still crossed—but her body had eased slightly. Shoulders lower. Chin no longer raised like a shield.
Silence settled in again, but it wasn’t the strained kind. It was real.
She didn’t say anything else right away.
Neither did I.
But the space between us had shifted—just a fraction.
And I could feel it.
Chapter 5
Mina
I perched on the edge of a barstool like it might eject me at any second, eyes glued to Nikolai as he moved around the kitchen like some kind of stoic culinary wizard.
He didn’t fumble. He didn’t hesitate. He chopped onions with surgical precision, cracked eggs with one hand like it was nothing, and stirred a pan like he knew what he was doing.
“First,” he said, all calm and confident as he cracked another egg into a bowl, “you whisk. No shells.”
I blinked. “Wait—you’re serious about this. You actually know how to cook?”
He added peppers and something green—parsley? oregano? alien moss?—to the sizzling pan. The smell was divine. Like comfort and warmth and maybe a hug I definitely hadn’t asked for.
“You can’t live off takeout forever,” he said, tossing herbs like he was on a cooking show with a death stare.
I scoffed. “Watch me.”
He gave me a side-eye that could freeze boiling water. “You’ve never cooked?”
“Please,” I said with a dramatic wave. “I microwave frozen dumplings and call it a life skill.”
He gave me that look again. The eyebrow. The smirk. The judgment.
Then he turned back to the stove. “Come.”
