Page 17

Hour One: Cookie Chaos

The kitchen lit with war.

Flour detonated, a cloud of white rising as she launched into motion without an apron, without measuring cups—just chaos and intent. She slapped a record on a nearby turntable—real vinyl—and let it scream something jazz-heavy and barely sane into the space.

She cracked two eggs. One splattered. She cursed it like it had insulted her ancestors, muttering with flour in her hair, smudges on her cheek, and one sock higher than the other. She cared less than nothing while Kaos remained in the doorway, motionless and aroused out of his wicked mind.

“Are you going to stand there like an emotional vampire,” she accused, “or are you going to smell vanilla with me?”

She marched over with two bottles, popped their lids, and shoved one beneath his nose. “Too soft, right? That’s not what the Muse wants. We need the bolder one.”

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 and rage .”

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 neither of 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.

“You never smiled, not once . 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.

“You know what?” she said, glancing back at him. “Never mind. Judge me. It was a breakup year, and she got me through it.”

He looked at the name, and a thought snapped into place with merciless clarity—someone had broken her.

Not just disappointed or walked away, but carved a silence into her loudness.

His rage reacted first, dark and brutal, already building the bones of revenge with nothing but a name.

His lust followed, sharper and more primal, whispering how best to reclaim her joy—through pleasure, through possession, through the kind of relentless devotion that leaves no room for ghosts.

Even though he didn’t speak, she clearly heard something in the quiet.

“Music sees what we can’t say,” she said, her voice soft, almost quiet. “And I need it loud, or I forget how to move.”

She stood and turned the volume knob on the player. The record hissed for a second before resuming, louder now—like it was reclaiming the room. She turned in a slow circle with her arms raised to the ceiling, moving her fingers through the notes as though they were tangible threads.

Kaos watched. Her joy wasn’t performative, it wasn’t aimed at him, it just existed whether he was there or not. And that made it sharper somehow.

She began dancing—nothing graceful—her movements raw instinct. A battle between rhythm and memory. She laughed. She twirled. She bumped into a chair and apologized to it. Then she grabbed his hand. “Your turn.”

She grinned and backed up a few steps, narrowing her eyes at him with challenge glittering in every line of her body. She pulled him in and spun herself around him like she was orbiting gravity. Her grip was firm, her breath fast. She tried to step on his foot, missed, and cursed.

“I was going to win that.”

“You were not,” he replied, his pulse raging.

She laughed again and released him, spinning away with her hands flung out, then suddenly pivoted.

“Let’s see how good your instincts are,” she challenged.

Without giving him time to respond, she sprinted straight at him like a missile of chaos and trust. Five feet out, she jumped in a reckless, swan-dive arc.

Kaos moved fast, catching her by the waist midair and lifting her above his head. She squealed with delight, limbs flailing as he spun her once, then again.

“I’m flying!” she screamed.

He lowered her slowly, setting her feet back on the floor, but she stumbled as the room tilted beneath her.

He caught her again—this time gently, steadying her with hands that never wanted to let go.

She laughed breathlessly and threw her arms around him in a hug that was fierce and full of sunshine.

Then she darted off toward the next thing, already chasing a new thread of chaos like the day hadn’t even peaked yet.

She made him part of her rhythm and his pulse hadn’t stopped dancing from it. His Lust collected every act and gesture and his Rage created a shrine out of it. And Kohl and Kaos knelt before it like slave children waiting for food to fall from their master’s table.

Hour Three: Bubble Rituals

She skidded to a halt near the hallway, eyes lighting up with sudden urgency. “Do you think they stocked it with bubbles?” she asked like it was the most important question in the world. “Real ones. Not the boring clean kind—something that smells like sin and sparkles when it hits the light.”

She vanished into the bathroom before he could respond. Cabinet doors thudded open. A faucet screeched. Then the unmistakable sound of water rushing into porcelain.

Kaos stood rooted near the hallway, jaw tight.

The sound of the tub filling was nothing short of torture—liquid temptation echoing through the walls.

His Lust surged, fully alert, imagining her skin slicked and steaming, her curves framed in bubbles and candlelight.

His Rage snarled at the thought of anyone who had touched her before he could.

She was bathing—in the next room. Naked.

Vulnerable. Glorious. And not his. Not in this body. Not yet.

“Hey,” her voice rang out, casual and sweet, just muffled enough to make his pulse jump. “Come sit by the door. I want to talk to you while I soak. No peeking,” she added, sing-song and shameless.

Kaos’s jaw flexed as he approached the bathroom. He sat with his back to it, every muscle drawn tight, every instinct clawing inside him. Steam soon curled from beneath the door, and with it came scent—lavender, citrus, something vanilla-laced and sinful.

He closed his eyes. Her sigh floated through the wood like temptation made audible.

“This might be the happiest I’ve ever been,” she said, voice slow and lazy. “And I’m not even doing anything important. Isn’t that weird?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

“I used to think happiness came after everything got fixed,” she continued. “Like... after the storm passed. But maybe it just sneaks in during the storm if you let it.”

Kaos let his head rest back against the wall. He didn’t trust his voice, so he gave her silence and just listened.

“You’re a really good wall,” she added after a while. “Solid. Quiet. Kind of warm. And terrifying. Just my type. Oh!” she chirped, water sloshing. “You wanna play Ten Questions?”