Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
PINEAPPLE
By the time I step back onto the main floor, the room has already started rewriting itself around the idea of me disappearing at the same time as Pizza.
That’s the part most people don’t understand.
They think disruption is loud, aggressive, obvious.
They expect chaos to kick the door in and announce itself with fireworks.
What actually happens is much quieter and far more effective.
A single shift in attention. A redirected camera.
A question planted just deeply enough that it starts growing before anyone realizes it’s there.
I don’t need to force anything.
The speculation does the rest for me.
The lights feel brighter now, hotter somehow, like they’ve absorbed the tension from earlier and decided to hold onto it.
Conversations are still happening, but they’ve changed tone.
There’s a sharper edge to them, a curiosity threading through the usual praise, and I can feel it following me as I move.
And then I see her again.
Pizza is back under the lights, exactly where she belongs in everyone else’s version of the night.
She’s composed, polished, every inch of her presenting that same effortless perfection that made the crowd fall into line around her earlier.
If I hadn’t been backstage with her, I might believe that’s all there is.
But I know better now.
I’ve seen the heat beneath the surface.
I’ve watched her control slip.
And I want to see it happen again.
A host catches my arm as I pass, all charm and opportunism wrapped in designer tailoring. “Pineapple,” he says, smiling like he’s about to serve something very expensive and slightly dangerous, “we’re doing a quick segment on unexpected pairings. Thought you might have an opinion.”
Of course he is.
The cameras are already pivoting toward us, the crew tightening in with the kind of eagerness that tells me they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.
The screen behind us flickers to life, bold lettering announcing something about innovation and bold flavors, and I can feel the entire room leaning just a little closer.
“Unexpected pairings,” I repeat, letting the words roll slowly, like I’m considering something complicated.
The host follows my gaze when it drifts, because of course it does.
Right back to her.
There’s a ripple through the crowd when they realize where this is going.
Good.
“That’s a risky topic in a room like this,” the host says, already grinning.
“Only if people are afraid of liking what they’re not supposed to,” I reply.
The cameras tighten. The room quiets.
“Alright then,” he says, gesturing broadly like he’s handing me the stage. “Give us your boldest take.”
I don’t rush it.
I let the moment stretch just long enough to build pressure, just long enough for everyone to realize they’re about to get something they’ll be talking about long after tonight ends.
Then I say her name.
“Pizza.”
The reaction is immediate. A little scandalized.
“And?” the host prompts, because he knows better than to interrupt a setup like this.
I let my eyes find hers across the room before I finish the thought.
“I’d be the best thing to happen to her since she realized the right kind of trouble wears very well on her.”
Voices rise. Laughter breaks out in pockets. Someone actually gasps like I just committed a culinary crime on live broadcast. The cameras swing toward her, catching every detail, every flicker of expression, every fraction of a second where she has to decide how she’s going to respond to that.
That’s the part I’m here for.
The reaction.
The host lets out a low whistle, clearly delighted. “That’s… bold.”
“That’s honest,” I correct, my attention still locked on her.
“People are very protective of tradition,” he adds carefully.
“Tradition gets stale,” I say. “I like to keep things interesting.”
The crowd eats that up.
Of course they do.
But I’m not watching them.
I’m watching her.
Even from across the room, I can see it—the way her posture shifts just slightly, the way that controlled composure tightens before smoothing back out. The heat from earlier hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it’s settled deeper, changed shape, turned into something more responsive, more aware.
She feels this.
Good.
The host keeps talking, asking follow-ups, steering the segment into something that sounds like debate but feels like fuel. I answer just enough to keep it going, just enough to keep the attention exactly where I want it.
On her.
On us.
On the idea of something that isn’t supposed to work suddenly becoming the only thing anyone can think about.
By the time the segment wraps, the damage is done. Or the improvement. Depends on who you ask.
I step away from the cameras before anyone can pull me into another question, letting the noise of the room swell back up around me. Conversations have shifted fully now. I can hear it in the fragments that reach me as I move.
Did he really just—
There’s no way that works—
I mean… would it though—
That’s the thing about suggestion.
Once it’s planted, it doesn’t need you anymore.
I find her again without trying.
“Enjoying yourself?” she asks, her voice smooth, controlled, but there’s something under it now that wasn’t there before. Something warmer. Sharper. A little less patient.
“More now than I was earlier,” I reply.
Her eyes narrow just slightly. “You like making a spectacle.”
“I like seeing what people do when they’re pushed out of their comfort zone.”
“And you think I needed that?” she asks.
I step closer, just enough to crowd her, enough to bring the conversation into something quieter, more contained.
“I don’t think so, I know so,” I say.
Her breath shifts.
Subtle.
But I caught it.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she says.
“No?” I question. “Don’t you want me to make the decisions for you?”
Her gaze flickers, just for a second, and that’s all I need.
Because she is reacting.
The heat is still there. I can see it in the way she holds herself, in the way her center seems just a fraction softer, more responsive than it was before. The control is still intact, but it’s working harder now.
“That wasn’t just a comment back there,” she says, her voice lowering. “That was you starting something.”
“Maybe I wanted to see if you’d finish it.”
Her lips part slightly.
I take one more step closer, letting the noise of the room fade just enough that what I say next feels like it belongs only to her.
“If I were to have you,” I murmur, my voice low just above a whisper, “I wouldn’t do it halfway.”
Her breath catches.
“I’d make it so good you’d start wondering why you ever settled for anything less.”
The silence between us tightens.
Her center responds again—I can see it in the smallest shift of her body, in the way she presses her weight down like she’s grounding herself against something internal instead of external.
There it is. That’s the reaction. That’s what I’m here for.
Her eyes lift back to mine, sharper now, brighter, like something in her has decided not to back down.
“You talk like you’ve already won,” she says.
I smile, slow and certain.
“I might not have won you over just yet, but I know you’re thinking about it.”
That lands exactly where I want it to.
And judging by the way she doesn’t immediately deny it, I’m right.