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He considered me for a long moment, then held out the spoon, still warm and dripping with the savory, golden reduction.

I didn’t take it with my hand.

Instead, I leaned in, never breaking eye contact, and tasted directly from it.

Gluttony went utterly still.

The sauce was divine—silky and fragrant, heat layered under warmth—but the real satisfaction was the flash of something primal in his gaze.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said, his voice low.

“Maybe,” I murmured. “But you cook with it.”

The silence between us stretched, taut and charged. Then, quietly, he set the spoon down, wiped his hands, and turned fully to face me.

“You think you know what you’re doing,” he said. “But you’re still learning what we are. WhatIam.”

“And what’s that?” I challenged. “Because so far all I’ve seen is a man who feeds everyone but himself.”

That hit something. A nerve. His jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak.

“You keep your distance,” I continued. “You retreat when things get close. But I don’t believe it’s because you don’t care. I think it’s because you care too much. You feel too much.”

Gluttony stepped toward me slowly, each footfall deliberate. “I warned you in the beginning,” he said, his voice dark honey. “I am not gentle. I do not share. I consume. I control. And when I care, it becomes need.” He paused. “I also learned my lesson when it comes to trusting my heart.”

He snarled the last word at me, but I didn’t move back. “We all fuck up. Doesn’t mean we stop, does it?”

“Stop what?” he asked nastily.

“Loving.”

The air between us cracked. For a heartbeat, I thought he might retreat again, armor slamming back into place.

“Or fucking up. Your choice, really,” I said and instead of retreating, he crowded me back until the edge of the counter pressed against my spine, caging me in with his body.

“You want me to trust you,” he said, close enough that I could feel the heat of his breath. “But trust is earned.”

“So earn it back,” I whispered. “With me.”

His hand came up, not rough but commanding, fingers curling beneath my chin and lifting it so I had to meet his eyes.

“You’re shaking.”

“You’re not the only one who’s afraid of wanting too much.”

His mouth crushed mine with the hunger of a man who’d been starving in silence, who’d fed everyone else and left himself empty. I moaned, letting myself be taken, giving just as much back. His hands were fire, large and unrelenting, gripping my waist, lifting me onto the counter like I weighed nothing.

His mouth returned to mine, rough and possessive, and I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, anchoring myself to him. The kiss deepened, heat coiling low in my stomach.His hands moved with purpose, sliding under the hem of my sweater, mapping skin like territory he meant to conquer.

The stove beeped.

Neither of us moved.

Then he broke the kiss with a curse, forehead pressed to mine. “If I don’t pull away now, I won’t stop.”

I cupped his cheek, thumb tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “Then don’t stop. But do it because you choose to let yourself want. Not because you’re afraid.”

His eyes burned into mine, torn between restraint and longing. Finally, he stepped back, breathing hard.