The knock came soft — two quick taps, a pause, then nothing. She was early, which meant she’d been pacing her apartment for half an hour, hyping herself up for this.
When he opened the door, he leaned casually against the frame, one hand braced above his head. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, collar open, no tie — casual, but calculated.
“Evening,” he said, voice low, smooth, and irritatingly calm.
She narrowed her eyes. “That’s your ‘I’m about to ruin my night’ voice.”
He smiled faintly. “Am I wrong?”
“Never are,” she muttered, stepping past him into the apartment.
“Shoes off,” he said immediately, not unkind but leaving no room for debate.
She stopped, halfway to the kitchen, and looked down at her sneakers. “Seriously? I’m about to wreck your kitchen and you’re worried about footprints?”
“Not footprints,” he replied, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “Control.”
Her brow arched. “Control of what? My feet?”
“Of you.”
A flush crept up her neck — infuriatingly, he’d said it like a simple fact, not a boast. “You just… order people to strip at the door?”
“Only you,” he said mildly.
“Oh, well, lucky me.”
“Shoes,” he repeated, calm as ever.
She waited, testing him. The silence stretched. He didn’t move, didn’t explain, didn’t bargain — just looked at her, patient and unyielding.
Finally she huffed and kicked them off, tossing them toward the wall. “Happy now?”
His mouth curved. “Very.”
The kitchen was the kind of space most chefs would kill for — warm wood cabinets, marble counters, stainless steel appliances polished to a mirror shine. It smelled faintly of citrus and something darker, like cedar. She padded in barefoot, instantly aware of every cool tile under her toes.
Her eyes caught on the plain brown box sitting on the island, tied with black ribbon. Harmless, until she saw the glint in his eyes.
She froze mid-step. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Absolutely yes.”
“That better not be what I think it is.”
“It’s exactly what you think it is,” he said, crossing to lean on the opposite counter, arms folded. “Open it.”
She approached like it might bite. “You’re not even gonna pretend this is reasonable?”
“Not my style.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he said, eyes flicking deliberately to her bare feet, “here you are.”
Her lips twitched despite herself. Damn him.
She untied the ribbon, flung it aside, and peeled back the flaps. The smell hit her first — sweet, sharp, savory — none of it making sense together.
“…You’re insane.”
“Creative,” he corrected.
“No, this is criminal.”
“Semantics.”
She reached inside and pulled out the first item: fresh chicken breast.
“Okay, not bad. Actual food. We’re off to a good start.”
“Protein,” he said mildly.
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
The next item was black garlic. She whistled low. “Oh, fancy. This I can work with.”
“See? A gift.”
Fresh basil followed. Her brows lifted. “Are you… being nice? Did you hit your head?”
“Balance,” he said, smirk faint. “Don’t thank me yet.”
Then came the chaos.
Pickled watermelon rind.
She squinted at it. “…Why does this even exist?”
“Sweet. Sour. Crunch.”
“Wrong.”
Ghost pepper hot sauce.
She stared at the bottle like it might spontaneously combust. “You want me to cry, don’t you?”
He arched a brow. “Would I do that?”
“Yes!”
“Observation,” he murmured. “Not insult.”
And finally, from the bottom of the box: a puff of pink cotton candy, slightly squished.
She looked at it. Then at him. “This is… a joke.”
“Dessert.”
“This is childhood trauma.”
“That too,” he said smoothly.
She dropped the lid shut. “I can’t work with this.”
“You can.”
“I refuse.”
“You accept.”
“I—” She caught herself mid-retort. “Wait. What happens if I fail?”
He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell cedar and soap and danger. “Then I punish you.”
Her stomach flipped. “…Define punish.”
His grin was wicked. “Oh, I’ll define it later.”
He set the timer for forty-five minutes. “Begin.”
The second it beeped, she was off — tearing through his pantry, muttering flavor combinations like incantations, pacing between counter and stove in a frenzy.
“Chicken, garlic, basil — fine,” she rattled. “But watermelon rind? And cotton candy?”
“Creativity test,” he said, leaning against the island like a cat watching a mouse.
“Sadism test,” she muttered.
“Observation,” he replied, smug.
Chaos followed.
Flour clouds. Spice jars raining from shelves. Cotton candy dissolving into a sticky glaze that dripped down her fingers. She seared chicken, caramelized garlic, crushed basil like a madwoman. At one point, she uncorked the ghost pepper sauce and instantly regretted it — coughing violently as fumes hit her throat.
“You alright?” he asked, suspiciously calm.
“Fine!” she choked. “Totally fine!”
“Need water?”
“Need you to stop laughing!”
She stole a taste of the glaze with her finger. He caught her.
“Rule,” he said, voice dropping. “No tasting until I do.”
“Guess I’m breaking rules tonight,” she teased, sucking the sugar off her fingertip.
His eyes darkened, but he said nothing. That silence was worse than any lecture.
Halfway through, the knife slipped. A sharp hiss escaped her lips as a bead of red welled on her fingertip.
He was there before she could blink — steady hands, low voice, calm cutting through her panic.
“Hold still.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Humor me.”
He cleaned and wrapped it with maddening precision, thumb brushing her knuckle just a fraction too long. Her breath caught.
“You good?” he asked softly.
“…Yeah.”
“Then finish.”
By the end, she was wrecked. Hair wild, apron streaked, arms trembling from adrenaline. The kitchen looked like a crime scene — splattered sauce, overturned spice jars, sugar crusting every surface.
But the plate she set before him?
Stunning. Artful swirls of basil oil and pink-tinged glaze. Chicken perfectly seared, watermelon rind arranged like edible confetti.
She bowed low, mock-dramatic. “Your majesty.”
He studied it. Cut slowly. Lifted a bite to his mouth. Chewed.
Paused.
Her sarcasm cracked into nerves. “Do I need to call poison control?”
He set the fork down. Folded his hands. Met her gaze.
“…Beautiful presentation.”
“Thank you?”
“Truly stunning.”
“…Thanks?”
“And possibly the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”
She gaped. “Excuse me?!”
“An assault on the senses.”
“You gave me cotton candy and ghost pepper! What did you expect?!”
“Adaptability.”
“Oh, I adapted. I adapted hard.”
“And you failed spectacularly.”
He rose, slow and deliberate, every inch of him radiating calm authority. She backed up instinctively until her hips hit the counter.
“So… punishment?” she breathed.
His smile was pure sin. “Oh, yes.”
He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with a single finger.
“You made art,” he murmured. “But art should never taste like regret.”
Her laugh bubbled out, half-nerves, half-thrill. “Unfair.”
“That’s the point.”
He stepped back suddenly, infuriatingly composed. “Clean my kitchen.”
She blinked. “…That’s it?”
“Not quite.” His voice dropped low. “Shoes off, apron on, no talking while you clean. You follow every rule.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I double it.”
She swallowed. “You’re evil.”
He arched a brow. “Observation, not insult.”
The way he said it made her shiver.
She muttered under her breath as she grabbed a sponge. “Sadist.”
Behind her, his chuckle was rich and unrepentant.
“Careful,” he murmured. “That’s almost talking.”
The quiet that followed was electric — her scrubbing, his watchful presence behind her, the low hum of tension between them. Every time she bent to pick something up, she felt his eyes on her. Every clink of dishes sounded loud. By the time she wrung out the last rag, her nerves were strung tight as wire.
He stepped forward then, close enough for his breath to ghost her ear.
“Done?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Good girl.”
Two words. Her stomach flipped.
He took her hand — the bandaged one — and kissed it slow, deliberate, a soft contrast to the steady command in his voice.“Now,” he murmured, leading her toward the counter where the cotton candy had sat earlier, “let me show you what dessert really tastes like.”