Chapter 3
Terms & Conditions
Sage
Leo stands a careful distance away, coffee in hand, watching me like I’m a storm he can outskate. He’s shower-fresh and aggravatingly composed, which makes me want to underline the knives line a third time just to feel better.
“House rules,” I announce, capping the marker with a snap. “You break them, you sleep in the stairwell.”
His mouth almost curves. Almost. “Is that a legally enforceable penalty?”
“Comes with management approval,” I say, nodding toward the ceiling like Mrs. Patel is God.
He studies the Post-it, then the kitchen. I can feel him cataloging everything again—the labeled bins, the color-coded tape on the containers, the rows of spices organized exactly how I like them. Mine.
Leo sets his mug down and steps closer to the counter. Too close. He picks up the marker, flips it between his fingers, and adds a tidy little box next to Quiet hours. “I’m up by five. I’ll be quiet.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re annotating my boundaries?”
“Clarifying,” he says, deadpan. “Terms and conditions.”
Of course he’s a fine print guy. I take the marker back and draw a tiny skull next to DO NOT TOUCH MY KNIVES. Petty, yes. Satisfying, also yes.
He glances toward the second bedroom—the studio—then back to me. “You sleep okay?”
“Like a rock,” I lie. “You?”
“Couch is short. I’m longer.” He shrugs like it’s not a complaint. It sounds like one anyway, and guilt pricks me for half a second before self-preservation slams the door. The studio stays the studio. My dreams don’t make room for anyone.
To prove the point, I tug open the pantry and grab a jar of turmeric, a lemon, whole peppercorns. My hands find their rhythm—zest, slice, crack the mill—until the kitchen smells like sunshine and heat. Control tastes like citrus.
Leo leans on the far side of the island, arms crossed, silent. His attention lands on my knife roll, the matte-black handles lined like a choir. He doesn’t touch. Smart man.
“Why the knives rule?” he asks finally.
“Because they’re sharp," I say, then hesitate. It’s easier to joke than admit the truth—that these blades are the only thing I trust to stay exactly where I left them,” I say. “And because they’re mine.”
He nods like he understands both answers. “Noted.”
I tape a second neon square to the freezer: LABEL EVERYTHING. Underneath it, I add smaller text because I’m petty before caffeine: Even if you think it’s obvious.
He huffs out a breath that’s dangerously close to a laugh. “You always this… organized?”
“I’m always this employed,” I say, reaching for a stockpot. “Systems keep small lives from falling apart.”
His gaze flicks to the rent notice lurking beneath a cookbook on the counter. I slide the book over it before he can pretend he didn’t see. My cheeks heat. He doesn’t comment.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, tapping the Post-it. “We treat this like a professional kitchen. Respect the station. Call your corners. Don’t surprise the chef.”
He lifts his mug again, eyes meeting mine over the rim. “I’ll try not to.”
The marker squeaks as I add one last bullet I didn’t plan: No guests. The letters look louder than the room feels. He tracks the stroke of my hand, then gives a small, understanding nod that makes something in my chest unclench and clench at the same time.
Boundaries established. Lines drawn. If only my pulse would get the memo.
When I come back from my delivery route that afternoon, something feels off. The apartment smells like soap and quiet—the kind of stillness that’s too deliberate to be accidental.
Then I see it: my spice rack.
All fifty-eight jars, alphabetized.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, dropping my tote by the door. The man reorganized my soul.
I stand there for a second, torn between admiration and homicidal intent. He didn’t even get creative—just lined everything up like a grocery store shelf. Cumin next to curry powder, saffron between salt and sesame. It’s clinical. It’s horrifying. It’s… kind of neat.
“Voss!” I shout toward the living room.
He appears from the hallway, damp hair, fresh shirt, the faint scent of gym soap following him. “You’re home early.”
“You’re alive to notice. That’s lucky for you.” I point to the rack. “Explain yourself.”
He glances at the spices, then at me, all calm composure. “They were out of order.”
“They were organized by cuisine,” I shoot back, voice rising. Short. Sharp. Each word a spark meant to sting, to cover the ridiculous thrill of arguing with him,” I say, hands flying up. “You don’t alphabetize flavor.”
He crosses his arms. “You alphabetize everything else. Logical progression.”
“Logical? You put za’atar next to allspice. That’s a hate crime in at least three cultures.”
The corner of his mouth twitches—he’s fighting a smile. “Seems efficient to me.”
“Efficient,” I repeat, stalking past him to start rearranging everything back. “You’re a robot in athlete form.”
“I prefer consistent,” he says, leaning against the counter. “Predictable. Order makes life easier.”
“Order makes food boring,” I shoot back, sliding paprika where it belongs—next to chili, where it can be understood. “You can’t taste life alphabetically.”
He hums under his breath, low and amused. “Hurricane Winslow," he murmurs, eyes flicking over me with a quick breath that stirs the air between us".
I freeze mid-reach. “What did you just call me?”
He’s not smirking now, just watching, eyes steady. “That’s what you are. Blow in, rearrange everything, then act like the chaos was always here.”
Something about the name—half insult, half something else—sets my pulse racing. “Careful,” I warn. “Hurricanes leave damage.”
“I can handle wind,” he says quietly.
For one beat, we just stare at each other, the air between us tight and charged. Then I roll my shoulders back, break the moment, and grab a lemon from the counter. “You hungry?”
He glances toward the clock. “Always.”
“Good. I’ll show you what seasoning tastes like.”
His lips twitch again, that almost-smile surfacing. “Should I alphabetize the plates?”
“Try it and lose a finger.”
He chuckles—a sound so low and rare it feels like a secret.
I turn back to my stove, pretending I don’t like the sound of it.
Dinner starts as an experiment—the air warm with spice and lemon, the low hiss of oil meeting the pan filling the space with a steady, intimate rhythm and ends as a silent competition.
He takes up one corner of the counter, elbows squared, watching every move like I’m a live-action cooking show he refuses to admit he’s invested in.
I sear chicken in turmeric and lemon, steam garlicky greens, fluff citrus quinoa. It’s not fancy, just balanced. The kind of meal that builds you back from the inside out.
Leo stays quiet, except for the occasional, “You time everything?”
“It’s called precision,” I reply. “Some of us use clocks instead of heart rate monitors.”
He grunts, amused, leaning closer when the scent of toasted spices hits the air. The warmth turns my kitchen golden, sun glowing off copper pans and glass jars. For the first time since he moved in, the space feels… shared.
I plate the food, sliding one dish across to him. “Turmeric lemon chicken, garlicky greens, citrus quinoa.”
He raises a brow. “Colorful.”
“Food should look like a sunset,” I say, settling opposite him. “Now eat before it gets cold.”
He takes one slow bite. Then another. His expression doesn’t change, but his fork doesn’t stop moving either. By the time I reach for my own plate, he’s already clearing his.
“Decent?” I ask.
He wipes his mouth, finally looking up. “Not bad.”
“Not bad?” I repeat, incredulous. “That’s all I get?”
He holds my gaze. “I don’t hand out superlatives.”
“Good thing I’m fluent in understatement,” I mutter, spearing a bite of quinoa. “That means amazing.”
The edge of his mouth lifts. “If you say so.”
“Oh, I say so.” I point my fork at him. “Half your teammates think ordering risotto to-go counts as recovery. You’re lucky I’m here to save you from beige food and mediocrity.”
Something flickers across his face—quick, subtle, gone before I can name it. “You shouldn’t talk about them like that.”
“Truth isn’t slander,” I shoot back. “And if it makes you feel better, I think you’re the only one who actually eats like you train.”
He doesn’t look relieved. Just thoughtful, maybe even… wary.
I try to change the subject, pushing my hair out of my face. “You want tart cherry juice for recovery? Helps with inflammation, sleep—”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “But I like feeding people. Even stubborn ones.”
The silence that follows feels heavier than it should. He sets his fork down, slow and deliberate, like he’s choosing not to argue.
Before I can fill the space, my laptop dings. Maya’s name flashes across the screen—FaceTime call. I swipe to answer, propping it on the counter.
“Hey, chef,” she chirps. “You alive? The restaurant’s too quiet without you—” She stops mid-sentence, eyes widening. “Wait. Is that the hot one from élan?”
Leo freezes mid-sip. I swear my soul leaves my body.
“Maya!” I hiss, slamming the laptop shut so fast the sound echoes. My face burns.
Leo’s trying not to laugh. “The hot one?” he says, voice low, teasing.
I groan, covering my face with both hands. “If I die of mortification, you’re not allowed at my funeral.”
He chuckles—soft and warm and unfairly good to hear. “Noted.”
After dinner, the apartment falls into a soft, uneasy quiet. The kind that makes every sound feel amplified—the hum of the fridge, the tap of Leo’s phone as he checks game film, the low rhythm of my own heartbeat still trying to calm down after Maya’s ambush.
I rinse the dishes by hand, partly because it’s habit, partly because it gives me something to do that doesn’t involve looking at him. Behind me, he’s stretching, the soft creak of the couch fabric marking every long exhale. It’s annoyingly humanizing.
When I finally turn, I catch sight of his gear bag sprawled across the floor. It’s huge—military-grade, taking up half my living room like it owns the lease. The sight sets off every order-loving nerve in my body.
“You planning to unpack that, or is it your emotional support luggage?”
He glances over, unfazed. “It’s fine there.”
“It’s not fine there,” I counter. “It’s a tripping hazard.”
He hums, not looking up from his phone. “You could step around it.”
“Or,” I say sweetly, “you could move it.”
He finally meets my eyes, and that quiet challenge sits between us again. Then—because of course he does—he nudges the bag an inch with his foot. “Better?”
I let out a slow breath. “Barely.”
He smiles, that almost invisible curve that’s half taunt, half truce, and goes back to his phone. The faint glow lights his face in gold and shadow. There’s something careful about him—like he’s keeping the whole world at arm’s length and doesn’t realize he’s doing it.
I shouldn’t notice. I definitely shouldn’t care. But his quiet is infectious, settling under my skin like a low hum.
When I head toward the hallway, I catch myself pausing by the second bedroom door—the studio.
My catering setup gleams in the dim light: chrome tables, stacked pans, shelves of ingredients.
My life distilled into one small space. It should make me feel safe.
Instead, the thought of another person in my orbit, even temporarily, makes me itch.
I close the door softly and turn back to the living room. Leo’s watching me again, unreadable.
“What’s in there?” he asks, nodding toward the closed door.
A dozen answers crowd my throat—excuses, deflections, anything but the truth. That room is the only place I can control every inch, every label, every sound. Letting someone see inside feels like handing them the blueprint to my calm.
“My business,” I say, sharper than intended. “Literally.”
He lifts his hands, a gesture of surrender. “Fair.”
I grab my water bottle, trying to shake off the sudden pulse of defensiveness. “You’re not the first athlete I’ve met, you know. But you are the first one who doesn’t talk about himself nonstop.”
He gives a faint shrug. “Talking doesn’t win games.”
“Neither does living out of a duffel,” I shoot back. “You’re making my apartment look like a locker room.”
That gets me another small smile. “You’re relentless.”
“Chef,” I correct automatically. “We’re built that way.”
He laughs under his breath, then sets his phone aside, finally looking at me with that steady, unsettling calm. “Good. Relentless wins.”
The words land heavier than he probably means them to. Something in his tone—quiet, certain—makes the air thicken. I grab my towel from the counter and throw it over my shoulder like armor.
“Well,” I manage, forcing lightness back into my voice, “as long as we’re clear about the rules.”
He nods. “Crystal.”
For a moment, it almost feels like peace.
Then the door buzzer cuts through the calm, shrill and abrupt.
Leo looks up, brows drawn. “Expecting someone?”
My stomach twists. “No.”
An envelope slides under the door, crisp against the hardwood. I bend to pick it up, already dreading the weight of whatever it is. Mrs. Patel’s neat handwriting fills the front: Co-Tenancy Agreement – Minimum Four Weeks.
I stare at it, my pulse spiking. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Leo meets my eyes, quiet amusement flickering behind his. “Guess I’m harder to evict than you thought.”
The paper crinkles in my hand. Four weeks. The words thud in my chest, heartbeat loud in the sudden quiet—too close, too long, and not nearly enough distance between us.
The rules suddenly feel a lot less solid.