I look down, realizing my towel has slipped much lower on my chest than I’m remotely comfortable with. Heat rushes to my face as I yank it back up, my cheeks blazing, while he munches on his cookie. That knowing grin? Hot.
I narrow my eyes in mock annoyance. “Do you ever stop flirting?”
He shakes his head, thoughtful. “Oh, I wouldn’t call that flirting.”
“What would you call it, then?”
He pauses as if considering. “Wishful thinking.”
I try not to laugh. I fail. He does, too, and it’s worrying how much I like the sound of it. Warm and deep, and like music to my ears, making every note reverberate through my body and sending shivers down my spine.
“You know what? I’ll stop flirting as soon as it doesn’t make you smile like that.”
Goddamn it.
I force myself to exhale and push past the swirling mix of nerves and… something else bubbling under the surface. Standing, I grab a stack of plates to clear the table. We move around the kitchen insync, quiet except for the clinking of dishes, in a silence that feels charged yet strangely comforting at the same time.
As he reaches for a higher shelf, his shirt shifts, revealing a flash of white gauze taped to his upper right arm. My brow furrows. “What happened there?”
He freezes, just for a second, before tugging his shirt back down in one swift motion. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
I arch a brow. “A scratch my Sherlock might be responsible for?”
He chuckles, but it’s thinner than usual, the humor not quite reaching his eyes. “Sherlock was a perfect cat. If you ignore the hissing. And the kicking.”
I snort, shaking my head. Still, something about the way he brushes it off feelsweird. But before I can press further, he’s already turned his attention back to the sink, scrubbing at a plate with unnecessary vigor.
When I go back for the boxes of food, I see the fortune cookie note on his side of the table. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pick it up, reading the small print:The love of your life is right in front of your eyes.
My stomach flips, and the noise of the kitchen fades into the background. When I glance back at him, his focus is on the sink, but there’s something in the way his shoulders are set—tense, almost guarded. And just like that, the warmth twists into something harder.
Vanessa’s words echo in my mind.
Quentin stabbed the killer in his arm.
I look back at Rafael, brows furrowing.
Just a coincidence, I’m sure.
the one-bed-only[trope]
a diabolical plot device crafted by the romance gods to force two characters into unbearably close proximity; defined by awkward negotiations, sleepless nights (for one or both), and an inevitable wake-up cuddle no one will admit to initiating. often accompanied by an inexplicably small hotel budget or the phrase “we’re adults, we can handle this.” guess what? they can’t.
“Shit,” Rafael mutters, glancing at the couch where he left his jacket. He takes a hesitant step toward it, then stops in his tracks. I sneak a peek at Sherlock sprawled out across it, his tail flicking lazily.
He lets out a slow breath and rubs the back of his neck. “Scarlett, your cat is giving methe look.”
I bite back a laugh. “Careful. Wouldn’t want him to scratch your pretty face, now, would we?”
“I just need my keys, Sherlock. Be reasonable,” he pleads, butSherlock doesn’t budge, and instead he stretches languidly, dragging his claws ever so lightly across the black leather of Rafael’s jacket.
“You’re going to have to bribe him.”
“With what? My dignity?”
“You could try sweet-talking him. Maybe he’ll find your charm irresistible.”
He groans but kneels next to the couch anyway, leveling a serious look at the cat. “Sherlock, you’re very cute. Truly, a vision of feline grace. Your fur is so… fluffy, and, uh, lustrous? But I really,reallyneed my jacket, ’cause, you see, that’s where my keys are.”
