That does it. That absolutely does it.
Without pausing to consider the consequences or the sheer waste of premium confectioner's sugar, I grab the half-full bag from the counter beside me and hurl it directly at his face with every ounce of strength I possess.
To his credit, he doesn't flinch. Just closes his eyes as a cloud of fine white powder explodes around his head, coating him in a fresh layer of sweet-smelling dust. When he opens them again, his entire face is white except for his eyes and mouth, and he looks like the world's most muscular ghost.
"Better?" he asks mildly.
"So much better," I lie.
He finally withdraws his arm, though his face remains framed in the window opening. "Turn off the fan, Quinn."
"Make me."
"Is that a challenge?"
Something in his tone sends a shiver down my spine that has absolutely nothing to do with temperature. I lift my chin and meet his eyes, refusing to back down even though every survival instinct I possess is suddenly screaming warnings I don't want to hear.
"What if it is?"
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Really looks, like he's cataloging every detail, from my flour-dusted hair to my crossed arms to the defiant tilt of my jaw. Then he straightens to his full height outside the window.
"You should turn off the fan," he says, each word deliberate and measured, like he's giving me one final opportunity to be reasonable.
I tilt my head, examining him through the window with what I hope looks like casual indifference rather than the strange, electric anticipation currently crackling through my veins. "Or what?"
"Or I will turn it off myself."
The statement lands between us with the weight of a promise, not a threat. Something about the certainty in his voice makes my pulse kick up another notch, though I'd rather die than let him see it.
I let out a laugh that comes out sharper than intended, gesturing between us with one flour-dusted hand. "You're on the other side of a wall, Lanek. A solid brick wall, in case you've forgotten. Unless you plan to just walk around through the front like a normal person and ask politely, which we both know isn't going to happen because you don't actually know how to be?—"
The back door of my bakery crashes open with enough force to rattle the hinges, the sound of metal striking wood echoing through my kitchen like a gunshot. The little bell I'd hung there for aesthetic purposes goes flying, hitting the floor with a discordant jangle that seems to punctuate the sudden shift in the air between us.
I spin around to find Lanek filling the entire doorframe, still covered in confectioner's sugar and flour, looking like some kind of deranged snow monster who just decided to rob a bakery. He steps inside without invitation, and I'm suddenly, acutely awareof exactly how much space he takes up in my carefully organized kitchen.
"Get out," I say, but my voice has lost some of its conviction.
"Fan first."
"This is breaking and entering!"
"The door was unlocked." He takes another step forward. "Fan, Quinn."
I should move. Should run to the fan and shut it off, should de-escalate this situation before it spirals further out of control. Instead, I stand my ground and watch him approach with my heart hammering and my hands clenched into fists at my sides.
"No."
The word comes out steady despite everything, and something flashes through his expression. Approval, maybe. Or interest. Something that makes the air between us feel suddenly charged, heavy with potential energy.
He crosses the remaining distance in two strides, moving past me toward the back door and the still-running industrial fan beyond it. I could stop him. Should stop him. Instead, I follow, because apparently confrontation is my new addiction.
He reaches the industrial fan and flips the power switch with one decisive motion. The motor winds down with a mechanical groan, and the sudden absence of that relentless mechanical roar is almost shocking in its completeness. My ears ring in the void it leaves behind, adjusting to the unexpected quiet that rushes in to fill the space.
"There," he says, turning back to face me with an expression of such casual satisfaction that it makes my teeth grind. "Was that so difficult?"
My hands ball into fists at my sides. "You can't just barge into my shop whenever you feel like it and start touching my equipment like you own the place!"
"You blew flour into mine first," he counters, his tone maddeningly reasonable, like we're discussing something as mundane as the weather instead of our ongoing territorial dispute.
