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Enzo moves through my kitchen like he’s done it for years. Confident hands opening cabinets that should be unfamiliar, finding things I didn’t even know I owned. I watch from the doorway, arms crossed over my chest.

The muscles in his back flex as he reaches for a pan, and I hate that I notice. I hate that my eyes track the movement, that my body registers it while my mind screams in protest.

“What are you doing?” I ask, half curious.

“Cooking you breakfast,” he answers without stopping.

With my eyebrows raised, I sit down at the small table. For a few moments I just look out the window, wondering if this is even real. But when I turn my attention back to him, he’s still there.

“You don’t have to cook for me,” I argue. “I can feed myself.”

As he just continues his silent, efficient invasion of my space, I open the coconut water, gulping half the bottle down.

“Did you go shopping?” I ask, finding it hard to picture him walking along the supermarket aisles.

“I had them brought in.” His back is still to me as he stirs something that smells disarmingly good. “Your pantry was… insufficient.”

“For someone who wasn’t invited, you’re awfully critical,” I volley, but it lacks the bite I intended. My throat is dry, and the coconut water is actually helping.

Soon enough, he’s sliding a bowl of what looks like porridge across the small table to me. It’s not just oatmeal—there are berries, sliced almonds, a drizzle of honey. It looks Instagram-worthy, which only irritates me more.

I’m quick to tell him thank you, but for some reason, it sounds insincere. I’m pretty sure he thinks so as well, because he arches an eyebrow as he sits down next to me.

Rather than bothering with more words, I dig in. “Oh, my God!” I exclaim after the first few bites. “This is delicious.” I feel a bit ridiculous for praising porridge like it’s a five star meal, but it kind of is. The extras he’s added hit my palate perfectly.

“Glad you’re enjoying it.”

When I’m almost half-done, I notice he isn’t eating. But when I question it, he just grunts something about not eating breakfast. Fucking hypocrite. I don’t say that though, not when I’m enjoying the food this much.

Once I’m done, I lean back in the chair and pat my stomach with a smile that he doesn’t return. In fact, he looks downright grumpy. It’s making me feel bad for… no, wait. I have nothing to feel bad about. I didn’t ask him to come here.

Even so… there’s still something I need to say. I stare at him, trying to formulate the words. “Thank you,” I start, the phrase feeling awkward and insufficient, “for what you did at Static. I don’t remember everything, but I know you stopped… whatever was happening.”

Gah, I sound like a rambling idiot.

He watches me with those piercing eyes, waiting for more. Always waiting. Always three steps ahead.

“I wasn’t there looking for a hookup,” I continue, feeling defensive without quite knowing why. “I was pissed at you for…” I stop, the words jamming in my throat. About what? The somnophilia? That’s not something I can just casually mention.

“For what?” he presses.

“Doesn’t matter.” I avert my gaze, absentmindedly pushing a leftover berry around with my spoon. “I needed to get out of my own head for a while. So after brunch with Lena, I agreed to go to Static. I just wanted to have some fun.” The last part comes out almost like a hiss. Talk about backfiring.

“It doesn’t matter why you were there.” His voice hardens slightly. “What matters is that no other man will ever touch you again.”

The declaration should infuriate me. It should make me stand up and tell him exactly where he can shove his possessive bullshit. Instead, something warm and dangerous pools low in my belly. No one has ever wanted me so completely before. It’s terrifyingly intoxicating.

“Right, because you’re the only one who gets to touch me without asking.” The words escape before I can stop them, bitter and sharp.

His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his eyes—a darkening, a focusing. “You’re referring to me eating your cunt while you were sleeping.”

I nearly choke on my porridge. “Of course I am,” I shout, angry all over again. “What even made you think I’d want that?”

“It was on your kink list, Toy,” he replies smoothly. “And I always aim to please.”

“That’s not… I didn’t…” Pinching the bridge of my nose, I center myself. Completely ignoring the warmth pooling in my lower stomach. “You violated my consent, Enzo.”

“Did I?” His head tilts slightly. “Your list made it clear it was something you wanted to explore.”