This Chapter is written in Nicolai's POV! Please enjoy reading this chapter <33

The kitchen was quiet now, save for the faint ticking of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. I leaned back against the counter, my arms folded loosely across my chest, though the tension in my shoulders refused to ease.

Paxton had left a few minutes ago for an urgent meet on Teams.

His apology still lingered in the air, soft but heavy with meaning.

"I wouldn't tell your secret to Jace."

The words hung there, pressing against me. I couldn't stop turning them over in my head, dissecting every syllable. On the surface, it seemed sincere—too sincere. And that was precisely the problem.

Paxton didn't do sincere. He played games. We both did. It was our unspoken language, the push and pull of one-upmanship, the calculated digs meant to draw blood.

No. That wasn't it. This was something else entirely.

This had to be a move. Some sort of manipulation. It wouldn't be out of character for Paxton to use my secret as leverage. But what was the play? Holding it over my head? Guilt-tripping me into submission? Or maybe it was subtler than that, a ploy to make me trust him just enough to let my guard slip.

And yet.

My fingers curled against my biceps as my thoughts shifted, unwelcome and traitorous, to the moment he had reached out. To the way he'd wiped away my tears with a care so deliberate it had rendered me speechless. To the hug that had followed.

It had been impulsive, raw, and completely out of character for both of us. Paxton had stepped into my space, pulled me close like we hadn't been tearing each other apart just moments before. I could still feel the phantom warmth of his arms around me, the way his hands had gripped me like I might break apart otherwise.

And for a second—just a second—I had let him.

It didn't make sense. I hated things that didn't make sense. I pressed my lips into a thin line, my nails digging into my skin as I fought against the pull of that memory.

Paxton was dangerous. Conniving. Ruthless when it came to exploiting weakness. I had every reason to believe he would twist this moment of vulnerability into a weapon. But—and here was the part that gnawed at me—he hadn't.

This wasn't part of our game.

The hug, the apology, the tenderness... Could it have been real? Could he have meant it, without some ulterior motive waiting to be unveiled?

I snorted under my breath, a bitter sound that didn't quite drown out the unfamiliar pang of doubt. I couldn't afford to think like this. Couldn't afford to let my guard down just because Paxton had shown me a sliver of kindness.

And yet, the doubt lingered.

My gaze flicked to the empty plate on the counter, my jaw tightening as my thoughts spiraled. If this was Paxton's game, it was unlike anything we'd played before.

I couldn't decide what unsettled me more: the idea that he was using me or the faint, maddening possibility that he wasn't.

"Get a grip, Nicolai," I muttered, my voice sharp in the silence.

_______________________________________________________________________________

I sat on the couch, laptop open, my eyes flicking between the speaker's face on the screen and the pile of paperwork beside me. My boss's voice was a low hum in the background as numbers flew past—quarterly results, projections, the usual drivel. My pen tapped against the desk, fingers restless, itching for something more than spreadsheets. I didn't know how long I had been zoning out when a flash of rosemary and lemon zest crossed my mind. A perfect pairing. Or was it mint instead of rosemary? I let the thought linger longer than I should have, drowning out the conversation.

"Can we focus, Nicolai?" My boss's voice cracked through the fog. I blinked, jolted back to reality, offering an apologetic smile.

"Right. Sorry." I scribbled something on my notepad, but my mind was already elsewhere.

My eyes wandered to the corner of the apartment, where Paxton was rifling through the fridge. The sound of a spoon clinking against a pot broke through the monotony.

Cooking.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I let out a breath. My boss was still droning on, but I was no longer listening. The kitchen was where I wanted to be, creating something real.

"Guess I'm just overthinking it," I muttered, clicking my laptop closed with a finality that left the meeting behind me.

With one last glance at my unfinished work, I pushed the laptop aside, my mind already on what to make for dinner. Maybe a soup. Something simple. But better.

The kitchen, my usual sanctuary, felt invaded, crowded with the weight of Paxton's presence. I blamed the too-warm air, the tight space, and most of all, Paxton himself.

He moved like he owned the place, casually reaching over my shoulder for a spatula. The brush of his arm was fleeting, almost incidental, but it was enough to nearly make me slice through the onion wrong.

I glanced up at him just once, long enough to regret it. He had ditched his jacket, leaving him in a sleeveless top that was both irritatingly practical and annoyingly flattering. I forced my gaze back down to the cutting board.

"Take a picture, Paxton. It'll last longer," I muttered, more bite in my voice than intended.

"Just making sure you don't lose a finger," he shot back, leaning against the counter. His smirk was insufferable, the kind of smug that could curdle milk. "Wouldn't want those delicate hands of yours to suffer."

My knife stilled mid-slice. I turned, raising a brow. "Delicate? These hands could crush your ego into powder."

"Bold claim," Paxton said, unruffled. "But can they make decent food?"

"Better than you can make a grilled cheese," I quipped, pointing my knife toward the cutting board for emphasis before returning to the onion.

He chuckled, moving behind me to stir the pot. His proximity was calculated—too close, too deliberate. I tensed, my hand faltering for a split second before I steadied it.

"You might want to add a bay leaf," I said abruptly. "And less salt. You're overcompensating."

Paxton paused, looking at me with mock offense. "I'm sorry, do I look like I need unsolicited advice from a guy who probably still eats instant ramen?"

"Try it," I said dryly, not rising to the bait. "You can thank me later."

He hesitated before tossing in a bay leaf. He stirred, tasted, then frowned. "Huh. Not terrible. For a know-it-all."

"High praise, coming from someone who thinks buttering bread is a personality trait," I shot back, my confidence growing. I gestured toward the cheeses he had laid out. "You're using the wrong cheese, Paxton. That melts better, and this one adds flavor. Combine them, and you'll get something halfway edible."

Paxton picked up the suggested cheeses, lips quirking upward in what almost looked like approval. "Who knew? Beneath the resting bitch face, there's an actual brain."

I snorted, rolling my eyes but refusing to look directly at him. I focused on the rhythm of my knife against the cutting board, the steady sound a small anchor in the storm of my irritation.

Minutes passed, filled only with the hiss of butter hitting the pan and the bubbling of soup. Paxton's movements stayed within my periphery, always deliberate, always too close.

When I finally looked up, it was to the sight of overly browned sandwiches sitting on the counter. "That's your best effort? Really?"

Paxton slammed the spatula down, jaw tightening. "If you're so perfect, why don't you take over?"

"I would've, but a certain smug idiot said, and I quote, 'I can handle bread.'" My tone was clipped, words sharp.

Paxton opened his mouth to retort but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he fixed me with a level gaze, arms crossed. "For someone who spends half his day correcting other people, you sure do fuck up Excel formulas a lot."

I stiffened, bristling as I stirred the soup with more force than necessary. "Speaking of which," I said after a beat, my voice strained but quieter, "I had a question about something work-related."

Paxton leaned back, his smirk making a triumphant return. "Oh, this should be good."

I ignored him. "The relationships between the tables in Power BI—what's the fix when it keeps throwing errors?"

His brows shot up, surprise briefly overtaking his smugness. "Data types," he said eventually. "Check them. If they don't match, it screws the relationships. Standardize them first."

He grabbed a pen and scribbled a formula on a scrap of paper, sliding it across the counter. I took it without a word, my cheeks burning at the quiet efficiency of the solution.

"Thanks," I muttered, tucking the paper into my pocket.

"Don't mention it. But next time, maybe Google it first."

I huffed, turning back to the stove. The soup was done, but I kept stirring, unwilling to meet his gaze.

"By the way," Paxton said casually, his voice dropping just enough to feel intentional, "you've been staring a lot tonight. Should I be flattered?"

I arched a brow, crossing my arms as I leaned against the counter. "Weird. I was just about to say the same about you."

He didn't move from his spot, but there was a noticeable shift in his posture, like he was settling in for a challenge. The corner of his mouth tugged upward, and I immediately knew he was about to say something ridiculous. I braced myself.

"So you admit you've been looking?" Paxton said smoothly, like the words themselves were a game, a move designed to set me off-balance.

"Looking is different from staring," I countered, tone clipped, though my fingers curled tighter around the ladle. "But I wouldn't expect someone with the observational skills of a brick to know the difference."

His grin widened, slow and deliberate. "Is that so? Then let's settle it."

"Settle what?" I asked, though the answer was already forming in my mind.

Paxton tilted his head, gaze locking onto mine. "The staring game. Right now. No blinking, no flinching. Unless, of course, you're too scared."

I laughed, short and sharp. "Please. You wouldn't last a second."

"Prove it."

The sound of the simmering soup faded into the background. I hadn't even realized I'd set the ladle down until Paxton took half a step closer, closing the space between us just enough to feel intimate and infuriating all at once.

I tilted my chin up, my glare sharp and unyielding. If he wanted a staring match, I'd give him one. I'd win.

Our gazes locked, and the world outside that connection seemed to dissolve. It started simple enough—both of us wearing our indifference like armor. But the longer I held his gaze, the more I became aware of the details I'd been trying not to notice all evening.

The startling green of his eyes, vivid and piercing, their color seeming to darken the longer we stared. His lips.

My chest tightened, and I pushed back, hard. I refused to give Paxton the satisfaction of catching me off guard.

"You feeling the pressure yet?" he asked, his voice low, like he was enjoying this in a way that was more personal than playful.

"Not even a little," I lied. My voice didn't waver, but my resolve was slipping. I could feel it.

The tension between us grew sharper, thicker. My lungs burned, my pride screaming at me to hold on just a second longer. But Paxton's gaze didn't falter, and that softness—that quiet intensity—made me blink before I could stop myself.

"Ha!" He leaned back immediately, triumphant. "Knew you'd fold."

I turned away sharply, reaching for the ladle with more force than necessary. My hand trembled slightly as I stirred the soup, but my voice was steady when I muttered, "Congratulations. You're officially insufferable."

"Oh, really?" He tilted his head, his grin curling into something sharper, cutting. "Because it kind of looks like you're undressing me with your eyes."

Heat rose to my neck, only infuriating me further. "You wish. I'd have to find you remotely appealing first."

His smirk softened, turning into something quieter, sharper—like he was dissecting me, peeling back each layer of my defenses to get to the raw, vulnerable truth underneath. "Right," he murmured, his voice dipping lower. "That's why you keep coming back for more."

My chest tightened like a vice. "More what? Your terrible jokes? Your unbearable personality?"

"You're so bad at lying," Paxton said, his voice soft but cutting. His gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, lingering on my lips just long enough to make my pulse spike.

"You're deeply weird," I said, defensive, a flimsy barrier against the heat spreading up my neck. "If this is your idea of flirting—"

"Flirting?" Paxton interrupted, his grin reappearing, all teeth and insolence. "Who said anything about flirting? I thought I wasn't remotely appealing to you. But if you're so bored of looking," he murmured, each word curling around me like a trap, "then stop pretending you don't want to do something about it."

The air seemed to vanish, the room closing in around us. My body locked up, heart hammering against my ribs, my mind screaming at me to back away, to shut this down before it spiraled any further. But I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe.

And then he was closer—too close.

The movement was sudden, almost brutal. His hand gripped my jaw, tilting my face up like he needed to prove a point. I barely had time to process the heat of his palm before his mouth crashed against mine, not exactly a kiss, but something primal and unrefined.

His teeth caught my lower lip, biting down hard—not enough to hurt, but enough to make my breath stutter in my chest. It wasn't careful or measured. It was messy, desperate, like he'd been holding back something feral and couldn't stop himself anymore. The taste of him—sharp and heady, tinged with frustration—hit me like a shot of adrenaline.

My hand shot up to push him back, but it hesitated, curling against his chest instead, my fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt. My body betrayed me, leaning into the heat.

And then it was over.

Paxton pulled back so abruptly it left me off balance, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. For a moment, neither of us moved. His hand dropped from my face like he'd been burned, and his expression twisted—something like regret flashing across his features.

I blinked, stunned into silence for once, my brain scrambling to process what had just happened. But he had already turned away, his shoulders tense, his movements abrupt as he grabbed a glass from the counter and busied himself with the sink like nothing had happened.

My gaze lingered on his back, my chest still tight, my heart still racing.

Our games—sharp-edged banter—had always been brutal, but at least they'd been predictable. Now it felt like something else entirely, something far messier and more dangerous.

What were we even doing anymore? What had our games twisted into?

The kiss—that kiss—had been an explosion of heat and tension, so out of character, so against every instinct I had. But it was also so freaking hot.

And that thought—terrifying and thrilling all at once—was the most fucked-up thing of all.

A/N

Please like, share, subscribe and thanks for reading!