Falling asleep was a lot easier than I thought it would be. After tossing and turning for the first 30 minutes, feeling his eyes bore into my back, fatigue finally set in. However, waking up was another ordeal. I didn’t get dinner the previous night, and the growling in my stomach made that very clear. I honestly thought it was gonna wake the whole estate up.

To my surprise, the seat next to my bed was empty. I felt a sour feeling rise up into my chest. He stared me down all afternoon, but then just disappeared in the morning. It wasn’t a big deal, I knew that, but it annoyed me anyway.

It was still dark outside my window, without even a screech or hum from the morning birds, and the only thing left to do was to quiet my stomach as well.

I stalked out of my room, the cold air sending a chill down my spine. The hallways were coloured a deep blue from the early morning sky peering through the windows but warmed by the soft orange haze of the occasional candle or lantern. Truth be told, I had no idea where the kitchen was, but I figured I would run into it eventually. You’d think I’d be more careful wandering, considering what happened the day before, but no.

And, of course, obviously, I got lost.

Shuffling down one hall and then another, trying to make out which paintings were different and which doors looked weird with my groggy, half-awake brain—needless to say, it wasn’t an effective strategy.

“What are you doing over here?” A voice called from behind me. I spun around to face him.

Lord Rannon was leaning against a doorframe, his brows furrowed and a candle holder in one hand. He was still wearing the same clothes from the day before. He must’ve been up all night.

“I can’t find the kitchen,” I murmured back, my voice burdened with sleep. “I didn’t have dinner, y’know.”

He sighed, placing an arm around my shoulder. “Alright, follow me.”

I slid beside him, my feet dragging from one step to the next. There was that smell again—French vanilla, fresh flowers—maybe it was the chrysanthemums? “You smell really good, you know that, right?”

“Is it impossible for you to compliment me unless you’re half-conscious?”

Heat rose into my face and neck, remembering the first night we met. “Tch, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Don’t bother being shy now.”

“Shut up.”

…

The kitchen was nearly as grand as the rest of the manor—polished stone ovens and ice boxes that rose above my head, but that didn’t stop it from looking medieval. Despite the sprinklings of modern technology here and there, it still looked like it had been ripped from the set of a period film.

“What’re you feeling like having? I can call in the chef--” He began, shuffling through cabinets. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, and, by the number of pots he nearly broke in his search, it was painfully obvious that he didn’t visit the kitchen often.

“I don’t want to bother them. It’s gotta be at least 5 in the morning,” I said. Besides, I had spotted a baguette behind the counter, and it was calling my name.

“Don’t tell me you’re just going to eat bread?” He scoffed, finally finding a pot in the cupboards.

“Would you be more or less judgmental if I said I was going to eat the whole loaf?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. At least have some butter with it.” With that, he turned back to the cupboards, making his way much quicker than the first time, and pulled out two clattering ceramic plates.

“Are you going to eat with me?”

“Might as well.”

 I took one of the plates off his hand, sliding it beneath the baguette. There were so many things on my mind—so many questions, but they remained on the tip of my tongue. I didn’t want to ask. Not right now. “You don’t have to do this, y’know. I can tell you’re tired too.”

A slight smirk tugged at his lips, threatening to turn into a fully-fledged smile. “You’re worried about me now?”

“Don’t turn everything into a flirt, alright. I just don’t want to be an asshole.” Especially since you saved my life yesterday and all. From my seat at the counter, I watched him start to move around the counters with ease, like riding a bicycle: A tea kettle there, a ladle there. I didn’t want to admit it, but, even with the icy cold air drafting through the windows and the dust falling in the burgeoning sunlight, the atmosphere was cozy, enough to make me want to fall asleep again.

“I guess I need to try harder then,” he muttered. As he spoke, a sweet aroma filled the air. I wasn’t familiar with it, but if I had to describe it, it smelt like a combination of chamomile and hibiscus tea.

“Try harder at what?” I murmured back, my eyes nearly falling shut as a yawn overtook me.

He laid a cup down beside my plate; that sweet, floral aroma wafted up to my nose. “At making you fall for me. That is what you asked for, isn’t it?”

My heart jumped into my throat, and I coughed out the entirety of the tea I was sipping. Why the fuck would he say that while I’m drinking tea?