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The kitchen is blazing, and it’s not from the ovens—we’ve worked hotter shifts than this in the summer—it’s because of him .

Hudson.

My skin prickles every time he brushes past me. Every time he mutters some silly joke under his breath in that low, easy voice just to get a laugh out of me. He moves around the bakery completely at ease, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms dusted in flour, looking like he just walked straight off the set of a sexy bakery photoshoot or something.

There’s a sheen of sweat at the hollow of his throat and I can’t stop staring at it.

It’s not fair.

He looks like he’s thriving in this heat—hair damp and tousled, golden skin flushed in all the right places. Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I look like I’ve been baked alive in one of the ovens. My hair’s a frizzy mess, my shirt clinging in all the wrong places, and my cheeks won’t stop burning.

But when Hudson glances at me, his eyes drag slowly over every inch of me—hungry, focused, like I’m the only thing in the room worth watching.

Like I don’t look awful.

Like I look like something he wants .

The thought sends heat spiraling through me. I grip the edge of the prep table tighter, trying to focus on anything but him.

It doesn’t work.

I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad thing that we are the only two working tonight. There are no distractions to keep my attention from him, there is also nothing breaking the delicious view he makes.

He reaches for something near me—deliberately close—and his arm brushes mine again. Bare skin to bare skin. A jolt shoots straight through me.

“You spacing out over there?” he asks, too casual. But there’s a curl at the corner of his mouth that betrays him.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, aiming for sharp—but it comes out breathy instead.

He leans in enough that I feel his breath near my ear. “You sure? You look a little… flushed.”

I turn to glare at him, and the second our eyes meet, my breath catches.

Because he’s not grinning anymore.

His gaze drops to my lips, then slowly trails back up. His pupils are blown wide, blue swallowed by black.

And suddenly I’m not thinking about cookies or closing duties or the fact that it’s nearly 3 a.m.

I’m thinking about dragging him into the back room and watching that smug grin crumble when he remembers what it means to feel anything —not just play at it.

His eyes linger a second too long, and I forget what I was doing. Where I am. Why I haven’t shoved him up against a counter yet.

The timer beeps on the oven and I jump, breaking the spell.

Hudson smirks like he knows exactly what that look in my eyes meant.

Asshole.

I move to the oven, pull out a tray of chocolate croissants, and set them aside to cool. Hudson picks one up, takes a slow, deliberate bite. A smear of chocolate clings to the corner of his mouth. He wipes it with his thumb, then licks it clean.

I turn away before I do something stupid. Like pull him into the walk-in just to cool us both down.

I’m halfway through decorating the last cake when he slides in behind me again. No warning. No distance. His chest brushes my back as he reaches for the powdered sugar.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs, his hot breath against my neck.

My body reacts before my brain catches up. A shiver runs down my spine.

“You ever heard of personal space?” I snap, elbowing him lightly as he backs away, grinning.

“Sure,” he says, dusting the cookies. “I’ve just chosen to ignore it around you.”

I glance at him. His hair’s curling at the edges from sweat. There’s a smudge of chocolate on his jaw. I want to wipe it off with my thumb.

Or my mouth.

Instead, I grab a spoon and flick powdered sugar at him.

He blinks.

Then grins wider. “Oh, it’s like that, huh?”

Next thing I know, we’re in a full-on sugar war. Flour, cocoa powder, bits of icing—everything’s fair game. He lunges at me with a spatula loaded with whipped cream, and I shriek, ducking behind a rolling rack.

“You’re a menace,” I shout, laughing harder than I have in weeks. Maybe ever.

“And you love it,” he throws back, eyes sparkling.

We’re both out of breath when the chaos winds down. The kitchen is a mess. I’m a mess. And he’s somehow hotter covered in powdered sugar, which shouldn’t be possible.

Then I realize I’ve cornered myself. Literally.

I’m backed against the counter, chest heaving, face flushed, and Hudson is standing right in front of me—flour in his hair, icing on his arm, and that look in his eyes.

The one that says he’s done pretending he doesn’t want this.

His smile fades. “Parker.”

I don’t move. Can’t.

He steps closer, our bodies nearly touching.

"Would you stop me if I kissed you?" he asks, his voice low.

I shake my head.

He leans in.

And then?—

CRASH.

A stack of sheet pans tips over in the back corner, one clanging to the tile, echoing like a gunshot through the kitchen. Both of us jump.

I look around, searching for signs of movement, for shadows flickering in the corners, for the flash of orange eyes or the rumble of a growl, but there’s nothing. Just the familiar hum of ovens and the buzzing of lights in the well-lit place. We’re safe, for now.

I joke under my breath to bring back the levity of seconds before. “Fucking gravity.”

It works because Hudson laughs. “Guess we should finish up.”

“I guess,” I breathe, my voice soft and shaky, caught between desire and hesitation.

The tension clings to the air as we tidy up in silence, both flushed and breathing harder than the cleanup calls for.

When the last tray is back in place, Hudson tosses his apron into the bin, runs a hand through his hair?—

And that’s all it takes.

I walk right up to him, grab a fistful of his shirt, and yank.

“Get your ass home with me,” I whisper.

He blinks, slow and stunned, like he wasn’t expecting me to snap first. Then the look of shock slowly morphs into his signature smirk. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I don’t bother telling him it wasn’t a question. I simply kiss him instead. It’s fast and hot and messy—flour and sugar and heat and months of tension combusting all at once. He groans into my mouth, his hands grabbing my hips, lifting me onto the prep counter without hesitation.

I pull back just long enough to whisper, “We’re not doing this here.”

He chuckles, breathless. “Then you better move fast, Silver, because if you keep looking at me like that?—”

“Now,” I growl, already dragging him toward the back door, toward home. Which is a word that never fit before but somehow with him in it, it feels more and more like it.

Like a place where there is trust, laughter, and mutual respect.

A place where there is some joy, despite all the monsters, and demons, and uncertainty of the world I live in.

With Hudson I can pretend none of it exists.

With Hudson I’m home.