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He took a slow breath. The scent was subtle, faint—forgettable.

She thrust the second bottle toward him. Definitely darker, richer.

“This,” she declared, nodding with zero of his input, “is ambition. And ambition needs cinnamon.”

She turned back to the counter, grabbed the mixing bowl and shoving it at him like a challenge. “Here. Stir this like you mean it. Like it insulted your mother.”

He took the bowl with a glance and one raised brow. “Is it supposed to look like wet sand after a thunderstorm?”

She gasped, happy with his description. “Exactly,” she said, already flinging more flour into a second bowl. “We’re building edible passion andrage.”

He stirred—slowly at first, then faster as the mixture thickened beneath his hand like it recognized authority.

“You’re a little scary,” she muttered, eyes focused on the counter. “Even your stirring is aggressive.”

“This mix is defiant.” Like her. Thoughts of passion and aggression turned his cock into steel as she gave a delighted snort.

“No. It’s judgmental. The batter’s terrified, I can feel it.”

She flung more ingredients into the bowl like she was throwing paint at a canvas then rolled dough with the concentration of someone sculpting clay. Her laughter erupted when a glob stuck to the wall. “Oops. That wall had it coming.”

She dipped her finger into the batter, tasted it with a soft hum of pleasure, then scooped another dollop and held it out to him.

He paused the man handling of his own bowl, frozen in a moment that hovered between caution and capture.

She stepped closer, smile softening. “Come on. One taste won’t kill you.”

His hand shot out and wrapped her wrist—firm, absolute. He locked his eyes on hers, scanning for trickery or intent.

Her smile turned radiant, brows lifted and daring him to do worse.

He brought her finger to his mouth and a second before he took it in, Kaos realized. It was Kohl’s first taste.

The second her finger landed on his tongue, Kaos threw open the power portals and gave both of them something neitherof them possessed. The ability to experience the best of both worlds. The human and the spirit.

The sugar was obliterated by the fire of her. Her skin, her energy, the wildness barely contained beneath her flesh flooded both sides of him. The heat in her gaze flared, burning hotter than anything he’d ever felt.

His tongue grazed the tip of her finger and she stared at him—stunned, fearless, and unsmiling. Just fully present. Like she’d suddenly remembered she had a body, and it wasn’t just being noticed, it was being coveted.

Kaos stepped back when Lust and Rage prepared to break through and give her what she begged for, take what she hid in plain sight, and light their worlds on fire.

She spun toward the oven then, slammed a tray inside, then shut the door and twisted the timer. She turned to him, both hands on her hips, breath still elevated.

“Youneversmiled, notonce. Tyrant.”

He had no words. But deep inside, everything had cracked. And bled fire.

Hour Two: Playlist Confessions

With the cookies cooling on the counter, she dropped to the studio floor with a marker in one hand and a mission in her bones. She crawled to the far wall and began writing directly on it without hesitation, her back to him, her humming soft but erratic—like a record skipping across thoughts.

“This,” she declared mid-doodle, “is the playlist zone. Every project needs a soundtrack, and the spirits of the songs need a place to live.”

Kaos tilted his head. The wall already belonged to her, wearing her scrawl like war paint.

She wrote names in uneven rows. Ella. Etta. Billie. Nina. Her voice warmed at each one. Then she paused. “Don’t judge me,” she muttered with mock solemnity, and added one modern name. She circled it with a heart.

Kaos approached, silent.