Page 116 of Glitched Fates & Stolen Mates

The truth was, I was being ridiculous. I’d already seen Kit twice today—once during the morning briefing, where he’d sat across from me looking stupidly handsome in his navy cardigan. And once, before work, at our spot under the lime tree.

The lime tree stood halfway down Killigrew Street, far enough from the hotel to feel private, hidden beneath that canopy of waxy leaves. We’d started meeting there almost every morning. Just ten minutes together, away from the others. At first, it had been innocent enough—coffee, quick conversations about the day ahead—but lately…

This morning, Kit had pressed me back against the rough bark, his mouth hot and insistent against mine. His hands had fisted in my hoodie, pulling me closer as I’d melted into him completely. The kiss had been desperate, hungry—the kind you see in films where the leads can’t keep their hands off each other.

An elderly woman walking her terrier had wolf whistled loudly at us, before calling out, “No need to get a room.”

I couldn’t deny that the thrill of potentially getting caught sent a rush of sparks dancing through my veins. Sure, the others usually used the basement tunnel entrance or came from the direction of the Tube station, but it was still possible someone from Killigrew Street might happen upon us one morning.

When I finally arrived at Kit’s, he opened the door before I could even knock, his face flooding with relief. I’d been early all the other times—he probably thought I was bailing.

“Nice apron,” I said immediately, desperate to avoid even a scrap of awkward silence.

Kit glanced down at the navy blue apron tied around his waist, flour dusting the front. “Hi,” he said, then shyly opened his arms for a hug.

After the tiniest moment of hesitation, I fell into him. His arms wrapped around me, solid and warm, and I buried my face against his shoulder. We stood there for what felt like ages, my heart rate finally slowing to something approaching normal. This was why I kept coming back. Not just because his flat was far nicer than mine, but because of this—feeling safe. Feeling calm.

“Come on,” he murmured against my hair. “I think I’ve finally found a wine you’ll actually like.”

I groaned theatrically as we walked into the kitchen. “Kit, we’ve been through this. I don’t like wine. Any wine. It all tastes like… wine.”

“Don’t worry, I still have coke,” he said, grinning as he reached for a bottle on the counter. “But I think you’ll really like this one.”

I squinted at the wine bottle. “Is it white or red?”

Kit’s smile turned triumphant. “Neither. It’s rosé. Extremely sweet rosé. It’s absolutely disgusting. To me. So you can have the whole bottle.”

My pulse kicked up again. “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

“Definitely not too drunk,” he said, and there was that edge to his voice that made my heart skip a beat.

“So, um.” I cleared my throat, desperate to change the subject before I combusted on the spot. “What are we having for dinner?” One of the many good things about always coming to Kit’s flat was that he always cooked me delicious things.

“Well, I’ve made pasta from scratch,” he said. “After you said you’d never had it fresh. And then, for dessert…” He tore his eyes away from me, turning to fiddle with something on the counter. “I thought I’d try making hotteok.”

“Hotteok?” I repeated, still processing.

“You know, the sweet pancake things with the filling? They’re Korean, right?” His fingers drummed against the countertop. “I found it online…”

“You’re making us hotteok?” The words barely made it past my throat.

His eyes snapped back to mine. “Why do you look like you’re going to cry? Do you hate them?”

I laughed. “No. I love them. They’re the best. I’ve only ever had them in Seoul. My mother says they’re too unhealthy and a pain to make. She’s not really a dessert person.”

Kit’s face split into a horizon-wide grin. “Good thing I am. I made the dough earlier—it needed to rise. And I’ve got all the sugar, nuts and cinnamon ready for the filling.” He gestured to bowls lined up on the counter. “I’ll obviously cook them fresh.”

“Obviously,” I agreed.

Kit poured me a glass of wine. While he stirred the pasta sauce, he glanced over his shoulder at me. “So how often do you get back to Seoul?”

“Well,” I said, perching on one of his kitchen stools. “We used to go loads, but not for years now. Eomma hasn’t needed to go for work, and Appa…” I paused. “Travel’s got harder for him.”

“What’s it like there?”

I thought about it, swirling my wine. “Loud. Busy. Amazing street food everywhere. The subway system makes London’s look like a toy train set.” I laughed. “I had a complete meltdown in Gangnam Station once. I was sick of my family and thought I’d leave the city for a bit. Rookie mistake.”

Kit turned fully around. “What happened?”