He doesn’t bite. Just keeps scrolling with his thumb, setting his phone aside only long enough to work the corkscrew with practiced ease. A bottle of red sighs open like he’s done it a hundred times before. The man multitasks emotional evasion and hospitality without a flicker of effort.
“Thai?” he asks finally, already pouring my glass.
“That depends.”
“On?”
“Whether you’re planning to poison me.”
That earns me the first real crack in his armor—a sharp tug of a smile. “I’m not subtle enough for that.”
I tip my head, studying him. “I don’t know. You’ve perfected the brooding villain routine.”
His brow lifts, steady and infuriating. “And yet you’re here.”
The words sink in, too close to the truth, and my pulse betrays me with a jump. I cover it with a sip of wine, the taste warm and rich as if it can drown the ache clawing its way up my spine.
We fall into silence after that—food on the way, glasses in hand, his presence filling every inch of space between us. It isn’t awkward. It’s loaded. Waiting. Every look, every pause charged with the knowledge that this isn’t just conversation. It’s foreplay, and both of us know it.
When the buzzer finally breaks the standoff, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“That was fast.”
His mouth curves. “Things can be done quickly when you know the right people.”
He rises, crosses the room, and taps something on a sleek black panel beside the elevator. A soft beep, then a metallic click as the doors slide open again. The delivery guy doesn’t even step inside—just hands over the bag and disappears before I can catch more than a glimpse of his jacket.
Of course. No one lingers here. No one crosses the threshold unlessheallows it. The thought curls cold at the edge of my stomach, reminding me I’m not in a place where people say no to him.
He returns with the bag in hand, setting it on the island between us. The smell floods the space—warm, spiced, savory—and my body betrays me with a sharp pang of hunger. I didn’t eat today, but I won't let that show. Not when I’ve already given him too much.
He pulls out the cartons and chopsticks, arranging everything with care that feels almost out of character. He doesn’t ask what I want, just slides a container toward me and waits, as if he already knows I’ll take it. I don’t thank him.
“Are you always this accommodating?” I ask, flicking open the lid. Pad Thai.
“Depends on the guest,” he says, snapping his chopsticks apart with an easy motion.
“And what sort of guest am I, exactly?”
His gaze finds mine, steady. “Still deciding.”
I take a bite and let the heat settle on my tongue. It’s good. Too good for the tension simmering between us. This isn’t dinner—it’s a game, the room is just another ring for us to circle in.
“You don’t cook,” I say, reaching for my wine.
“Nope.”
“You live in a penthouse and can’t sauté a vegetable?”
“I could,” he answers smoothly. “I just prefer not to set off the smoke alarm in front of company.”
“How considerate.”
He shrugs, chewing, and I catch it again—that easy tilt of his body, the roll of his sleeves, the shadow along his jaw. Lips slick with wine and chili oil. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost believe he was normal.
I know better than to take him at face value.
“Tell me something true,” I say, leaning forward like I can corner him with words.
