The week apart stretched like taffy. slow, sticky, and irritating. She wouldn’t admit she missed him, but her phone gave her away. Every time it buzzed, she checked faster than she wanted to.
He messaged twice a day. Sometimes three. Always casual on the surface. weather updates, food critiques, a random meme at midnight. but steady enough to feel like a hand at her back, keeping her upright.
On the sixth day: Back tomorrow. I'll have a surprise for you. Are you ready?
Define ready, she wrote back.
Hungry.
For what? She chimed. Her stomach did that annoying swoop she pretended didn’t happen.
A new kitchen challenge. He shot back.
…typing, nothing, …typing. Did he have her speechless, he wondered.
…typing, then finally,”when?”
It took you that long to type “when”? Tired of being challenged?
She fired back, I never back down from a challenge. When and where? I'm there!
Tomorrow evening, my kitchen.
You're on, I'm going to win this time!
There's my good girl. He replied.
She didn't reply. Just analyzed his words.
By the time she climbed his steps the next night, August heat clung to her skin like syrup.
He opened the door before she finished knocking. Same steady gaze, same irritating calm, except she noticed the faint upturn at his mouth like he’d been waiting exactly here for exactly this.
“Hi,” she said, breezing past him like she was up for a challenge. “You look taller. Humidity fluff your ego or something?” she smirked.
“Shoes,” he said, nodding at her feet.
“Oh, not this again.”
“House rule.”
“You’re obsessed.”
“You’re stalling.”
“Fine.” She kicked them off dramatically, giving spirit fingers. “Happy now?”
“Ecstatic.”
“You should tell your face.”
“My face is patient.”
“Your face is smug.”
“Your face is late,” he countered, already walking toward the kitchen. “Follow me.”
She followed — and stopped dead in the doorway.
The kitchen island was draped in thick white terry cloth. Jars of colored sugar lined up like a rainbow arsenal. A saucepan sat on the stove, steam curling lazy from a jar of honey in a water bath. Cooking thermometer sticking out of the jar. A pastry brush, whisk, and… oh… two sets of leather cuffs rested neatly nearby, their chains dangling off the counter’s edge.
Her brows shot up. “Are we… baking?”
“No.”
“Cooking?”
“No.”
“Sacrifice?” she grinned.
“Art.”
Her pulse tripped, half nerves, half intrigue. “On what?”
“On you.”
“Wow.” She forced nonchalance, and failed. “That’s a casual Tuesday night.” Her eyes smiled. “Can we have tacos?”
“Green?”
“Sauce? Sure.” She laughed.
The groan rumbled deep in his chest. She was testing him. Cool and collected he spoke firmer. “May we proceed?” Always with the grounding. Always giving her a door.
She exhaled slowly. “…Green.”
“Shirt,” he said, quiet but unshakable.
Her head jerked toward him. “Excuse me?”
“Need your back bare.”
“For… artistic purposes?”
“For you.”
“You’re so bad at casual conversation.”
He raised one brow, “Green?”
She hesitated a second too long — then peeled it off and tossed it to him, arms crossing instinctively.
“Fine,” she muttered. “But I’m billing you for therapy.”
He smiled — just enough to be infuriating. “Noted.”
The cuffs were soft leather, snug but forgiving. He buckled them with maddening precision, checking each strap like a ritual. She tested him immediately, tugging at the chains.
“You always this prepared?” she asked, voice dripping mock suspicion.
“Only when it matters.”
“God, you sound like a motivational meme.”
“You matter.”
She groaned. “If you keep saying that, I’m getting you a Hallmark stamp.”
“I’ll use it.”
“Of course you will.”
He laid a pillow atop the island, smoothing the terry cloth. “Stomach down.”
She eyed it like it might bite. “Nap time already?”
“For you.”
“Planning to suffocate me?”
His laugh rumbled low — warm, unguarded. “Murder and honey don’t mix.”
“Comforting.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I’m processing!”
“You’re stalling.”
“Fine!” She flopped onto the pillow in exaggerated defeat. “But if ants bite me, I’m suing.”
She heard him snort, as he was pulling the chains into place. Metal kissing metal as he secured her wrists and ankles to eyehooks bolted to the island, she hadn’t noticed them the first time she was there.
“You’ve definitely done this before,” she muttered into the pillow.
“Maybe.”
“And I definitely missed it last time I was here.”
“You weren’t looking.”
“No, I was trying to breathe after inhaling ghost pepper sauce.”
The blindfold slipped over her eyes. Darkness swallowed the room, sharpening sound: chain’s faint rattle, hum of the halogen bulb overhead, his steady breathing behind her.
“So… you’re not even gonna give me a hint?” she asked into the quiet.
“Nope.”
“Cool. Love the mystery torture vibe.”
“Trust me.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
“Charming.”
Warm honey hit first. The pastry brush dragged slow, deliberate ribbons over bare skin — shoulders to spine, spine to waist. Sticky, foreign, soothing.
“Feels weird,” she muttered.
“Bad weird?”
“Sticky weird.”
“Green?”
“…Green.”
Coarse sugar followed, cool crystals on warm honey, clinging instantly. He didn’t scatter; he painted. Curves and swirls she couldn’t see but felt bloom under every pass.
“You’re drawing something,” she guessed.
“Maybe.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Rude.”
“Correct.”
Powdered sugar snowed last, soft as first frost. Clean brush blending edges, whisk whipped and blurring lines into chaos that somehow felt intentional.
“You’re enjoying this,” she mumbled.
“True.”
“New hobby?”
“Only with you.”
“Lucky me.”
“Exactly.”
Time blurred. Sometimes silence hummed; sometimes his low voice cut through. Still good? he’d ask, and she’d reply with sarcasm — her way of saying green.
Sometimes he stepped away deliberately — testing her. Leaving her alone in sticky darkness until anticipation buzzed louder than cicadas outside.
His knuckles grazed her spine. Warm breath at her nape. A sudden nip..sharp, electric…at the curve of her shoulder. She gasped.
“Part of the art?” she asked, voice unsteady.
“Abstract,” he murmured. Licking it.
When silence hit again, she knew he’d stepped back.
“…You better not be taking pictures,” she said suddenly.
“I am.”
Her head jerked. “Excuse me?”
“Just the art, not you. Green?”
She groaned. “Fine. But if this ends up on the web, I will haunt you forever!”
“Noted.”
Chains unhooked. Limbs jelly.
“Up,” he said softly.
“Can’t.”
His low laugh — warm, amused — and then arms scooping her effortlessly, like she weighed nothing. He carried her down the hall to the master bathroom.
The shower tile was cool against overheated skin. Warm water sluiced sugar and honey in lazy rivulets. He washed slowly, carefully — knuckles grazing ribs, shoulder blades, hips. Each pass of his hand felt less like cleaning, more like hypnotizing.
“You actually took the picture?” she muttered, head tipped back under spray.
“Just the art, ill show you.”
“Good. I’d sue.”
“You’d lose.”
“Debatable.”
“No punishment tonight?” she murmured, as water rained over them.
“No punishment.” He whispered.
“Reward?”
His mouth found her collarbone — slow bite, just shy of pain. She inhaled sharply.
“Reward,” he said against her skin.
Towel snug around her after, arms steady. Guiding her to his bed. His fintertips at the small of her back, quiet grounding. No sarcastic line this time — just breath, shared and even. She didn’t joke. Didn’t run.
But when she finally whispered, “That was… insane and amazing,”
he smiled, helping her into bed. “thank you” he said, as he climbed in beside her.