“You said Mason’s bedtime during the school week is eight, right?”
“I did?”
“The other day?—”
“Right, right.” I snatch the wooden spoon from him and dry it quickly. “Where’s the wood oil? This thing is dryer than Joshua Tree.”
Aiden’s brow furrows. “What?”
“It’s a desert national park. Wood oil?”
“I don’t have any.”
I shake my head at him. “And you call yourself a cook?”
“No. I call myself a firefighter. The cooking is required to keep me fueled for fighting fires.” He reaches for the wooden spoon, misses, and grabs my hand instead. That accidental brush sets me alight.
Firefighter, my ass. And then I remember how good a kisser he is.
The kitchen feels smaller with him in it.
Not physically—nothing about this penthouse is small—but the air tightens, the space between us suddenly charged. He reluctantly releases my hand, so I pass him the spoon. He sets it on the windowsill over the sink. “I’ll get some oil for that thing.”
And now, all I can picture is him oiling it, hand moving up and down the length?—
Aiden rolls up his sleeves and turns on the water to make the sink hot again, the sound filling the silence we’re both pretending doesn’t exist.
We fall into an awkward rhythm. Plate to towel. Glass to rack. Our movements careful, deliberate, like we’re navigating a narrow bridge. Every time our hands get too close, one of us adjusts, pulling back just in time.
“This can’t get confusing,” I say, because if I don’t say it, I won’t say anything sensible at all.
Aiden doesn’t look up. “Agreed.”
“So,” I continue, forcing a practical tone. “Like I said before… rules.”
He nods once. “Rules.”
I take a breath. “This is temporary. We’re here because it’s safe. Not because—” I gesture vaguely between us. “Anything else.”
“Understood.”
“No mixed signals,” I add. “For Mason’s sake.”
That makes him glance up. His eyes soften, just a fraction. “I will be careful with him. I’m sorry about saying all of that in front of him before. I just… the thought of you two in danger short-circuited something in my brain. Won’t happen again.”
“And,” I finish, bracing myself, “no revisiting the past.”
Aiden sets a plate in the sink with more care than necessary. “That might be the hardest rule yet.”
I swallow. “Still a rule.”
He nods. “Okay.”
We lapse back into silence, but it’s worse now—thick, humming, alive. The water runs warm over his hands, steam rising faintly. I watch it bead on his skin before I can stop myself. When he passes me a mug, our fingers brush.
Electric.
I inhale sharply, pretending it’s nothing.
