I narrowed my eyes at him. “Seventy-two where? Siberia?”
“That’s room temperature.”
“For a walk-in freezer, maybe,” I shot back, tugging the sleeves of his shirt over my hands like makeshift mittens. “Do your thermostats come pre-installed with emotional detachment?”
His mouth twitched—almost a smile. “I like it cold. It keeps the house clean.”
“Oh, so the dust bunnies freeze to death before they can colonize?” I asked, deadpan.
“Exactly.”
I wrapped my arms around myself dramatically. “Okay, Russian Reaper. But just know—if I get frostbite, I’m haunting you. Forever.”
He gave a nonchalant shrug, already heading toward the thermostat like he hadn’t just been accused of operating a cryogenic prison. “You can haunt the kitchen. It’ll improve the cooking.”
I gasped. “That’s slander. I’m practically a chef now.”
“You nearly burned eggs.”
“It was a creative interpretation of ‘crispy,’” I huffed.
But beneath all the sarcasm and goosebumps, warmth buzzed in my chest. The air still felt cold—but the company? That part finally felt warm.
“So, as a completely reasonable and not-at-all dramatic compromise,” I said, following him down the hallway with my arms still tucked into the sleeves of his oversized shirt like a blanket burrito, “I demand tribute in the form of one hoodie.”
He glanced over his shoulder, already scowling. “You’ve stolen my shirt. Now my dignity too?”
I grinned sweetly. “Yes. And your thermostat privileges.”
He muttered something in Russian that I was fairly certain wasn’t complimentary, but then he pulled open his closet and yanked a hoodie off a hanger. “Here. Don’t spill anything on it.”
“Wow,” I said, snatching it from his hand. “So much tenderness. It’s overwhelming.”
He didn’t respond—just gave me a look that said you’re lucky I tolerate you, which was code for I’m secretly amused and would absolutely give you a second hoodie if you asked nicely.
I slipped it on. It swallowed me whole in the best way—soft, warm, with sleeves that went past my hands and a hood that practically ate my head. And the smell.
Oh no.
It smelled like him.
Like that earthy, clean, ridiculously masculine scent that lived somewhere between soap, winter air, and probably danger. My stomach flipped so hard it might’ve done a cartwheel.
I cleared my throat and pretended to focus on adjusting the cuffs like they were suddenly Very Important. “Okay, fine. You win. Your house can be an icebox if I get to wear this.”
He just grunted like he didn’t notice the way I was now refusing to make eye contact.
I padded past him on my way to the couch, hoodie sleeves flopping like I had sweater paws, when something tugged at me—like unfinished business.
I stopped. Turned.
“Hey,” I said, my voice softer than I meant it to be. “Thanks. For today.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just gave a small nod, but I saw it—the twitch of his mouth, the almost-smirk that tried very hard to act like it wasn’t a thing. Like he hadn’t just quietly rescued me from a human dumpster fire and handed me comfort on a silver platter made of sarcasm and soup.
Before it could get too weird—read: emotional—I pivoted hard.
“I’m stealing your remote,” I announced, lunging for it like a raccoon with a mission and zero shame.
