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He moves around, shaking cereal from a box, adding nuts and milk into a bowl. He puts it on the counter for me, ignoring my question.

I don’t move. “Why are you not at work?”

“I’m working from home.”

“Why?”

What’s with the twenty questions? Just eat and leave. Or better, take the bowl to your room and get away from him.

Here is my problem. After the kiss last night and my unplanned voyeur session, something shifted, and my hatred for him softened. Which makes no sense at all. He’s the same asshole.

It’s probably just my good mood due to a better sleep, and he will piss me off soon enough, and everything will be balanced again.

“Eat,” he barks, ignoring my question.

Ah, here it is, his charm. I cross my arms over my chest. “Or what?”

This man draws the worst out of me. I don’t even know anymore why I am fighting it. I’m not very hungry, but having a healthy breakfast is the first step in resetting my internal clock, and finding a better, more regular lifestyle.

So what’s my problem?

That the man who regards me like an annoying insect is here instead of yelling at people on the phone and serving me breakfast cereal. Why?

“Isn’t that an iron-fortified cereal?” I beckon to the box behind him.

“So?”

So? With nuts and everything else, it’s like he googled breakfast for iron-deficient people and served it to me. Why? Too many whys for this morning if you ask me.

He eats the distance between us and picks me up.

“What are you doing?” I gasp.

He sits me on the stool gently and lowers his head to my ear. For a moment, we are frozen like this. His breath on my skin sinfully warm. His closeness dangerously tempting.

“Fucking eat, or I’ll feed you,” he growls.

His breath fans my face, and along with the timbre of his voice vibrating through me, I can feel him in my core. This should not make me giddy or excited. It. Should. Not.

“Why are you so concerned about my diet?” I mumble, desperately searching for my sanity.

He grumbles something I don’t catch, picks up the bowl, digs in, and moves the full spoon to my lips. “Open.”

It’s not even a command. It’s kind of a plea, I think. Maybe I don’t need a well-rested mind, because that fucker offers wild interpretations of reality.

And it ignores me. Because I didn’t decide to obey, and here I am, glaring but opening my mouth.

“I’m concerned with the health and wellbeing of my fiancée. As should she be.”

I chew. Yum, this is really good. Not too sweet. Not too bland. “Stop patronizing me.”

He uses the opportunity to stuff another spoonful into my mouth. “Stop acting like a brat.”

Fair point.Stop acting like an asshole.

He gives me another spoonful.

“You don’t have to feed me.”