“Could be trouble.”
He chuckled, and I felt it in my stomach like a ripple.
The sauce was ready. The pasta steamed. The whole place smelled like comfort and chaos. I reached for the serving bowl and poured everything in, stirring it together, trying not to notice how his eyes followed my every move.
He was standing close now—too close. His arm brushed mine as he reached for the ladle, and the tiny contact sent a jolt through me that had nothing to do with static electricity.
“Need help?” he asked.
“No,” I said too fast. “I’ve got it.”
“Sure?”
“Yes.”
“Because it looks like you’re—”
“I said I’ve got it,” I said, turning right into him.
We collided with just enough force to make the wooden spoon slip out of my hand and hit the counter.
And suddenly, he was right there.
Chest to chest. Breath mingling with mine.
The whole room seemed to shrink to that single point of contact.
I could smell the faint spice of his cologne, feel the heat of him through my flannel, hear the unsteady rhythm of my own heartbeat competing with his.
He didn’t move. Neither did I.
His hand hovered just above my hip, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from it.
“Careful,” he said quietly, his voice rougher now. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Maybe I’m tired of being cold,” I said before I could stop myself.
His eyes darkened, that teasing glint replaced by something quieter. Something real.
“You keep saying things like that,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna think you mean them.”
“Maybe I do.”
I didn’t even recognize my own voice.
He took a slow breath, eyes locked on mine, and the world around us seemed to fade. The smell of garlic, the ticking clock, the snow pressing against the windows, it all dissolved into that single stretch of air between us.
Then he leaned in.
“Melanie,” he said, like a warning.
“Drew,” I whispered back, like a dare.
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t a cautious kiss. It was months of tension and teasing, every argument and half-swallowed confession poured into one moment that burned hotter than the stove.
His hand slid up my back, the other bracing against the counter as he pulled me closer. My fingers tangled in his shirt without permission, like muscle memory taking over.
