Chapter 8
Combustion Point
Leo
The smell hits first — garlic, onions, and something a little too close to burnt.
I step out of the bathroom, towel slung low around my hips, steam still clinging to my skin.
The shower fog trails behind me as I rake a hand through my hair, dripping water onto the floor.
For a second, I think maybe the building’s on fire.
Then I see Sage at the stove.
She’s standing over a pan, spatula clutched tight in her hand and shoulders locked. The sound of metal clanging against metal is sharp, rhythmic, almost aggressive. The pan jerks; the scent of scorched onions thickens. She doesn’t even glance up when I step into the kitchen.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, voice rough from the steam and sleep.
“Nothing.” Her tone is clipped, quick. She bangs the pan again, like punctuation.
“Doesn’t smell like nothing.” I lean against the counter, watching the set of her shoulders, the way her jaw ticks when she flips something in the pan. “You’re cooking like you’re mad at it.”
“I said I’m fine.”
The words snap, sharp enough to sting. I blink, taken aback. She’s never used that tone on me before — at least, not like this. Not loaded with something she’s clearly trying not to say.
“Okay,” I murmur, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Fine.”
But she doesn’t relax. Her movements get even tighter, more deliberate, like she’s trying to scrub the tension out through the food.
A strand of hair slips free, brushing her cheek, and she blows it away impatiently.
My gaze lingers longer than it should — on the curve of her neck, the quick rise and fall of her breathing. I shouldn’t notice. But I do.
I move around her toward the fridge, and she shifts at the same time.
We bump shoulders. The contact is brief but electric — heat sears through my shoulder, the scent of her soap cutting through garlic and steam, my pulse tripping hard enough to make me forget what I came for — skin to skin, heat meeting heat.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No, it’s fine,” she says, voice too bright. She sidesteps, but the kitchen’s too small. I can feel the frustration radiating off her like static.
The quiet between us stretches, heavy and awkward. I glance down — my hockey bag sits in front of the oven, right where she’s trying to cook. Of course.
She follows my gaze. “Seriously?” she says, eyebrows lifting. “You dumped that there?”
“It’s just a bag.”
“It’s blocking the oven.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tightening. “I’ll move it in a sec.”
“You’ve been saying that for two days.”
Her voice has that brittle edge again, and something in me snaps back, reflexive. “You’ve been rearranging the entire kitchen. I can’t find a damn thing on the shelves anymore.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she fires back, turning to face me fully now. “Did my spices disrupt your routine?”
I stare at her, dripping water onto the tile, towel still knotted low at my hips, the smell of garlic hanging thick between us. It’s ridiculous — the argument, the timing, the way her cheeks flush bright with anger. But underneath it, something else hums. Hotter. Louder.
And I can’t tell if I want to win the fight… or close the space between us.
It starts stupid — like most fights do. My bag, her spices, the tiny kitchen that feels smaller every time we’re in it together. But every word lands with more weight than it should.
She slams a drawer shut. “You’re acting like you live here.”
I snort. “You invited me to.”
“Temporarily,” she snaps. “Until your palace dries out.”
My temper flares, quick and mean. “Right. Wouldn’t want the king to sully the peasant quarters too long, huh?”
Her eyes flash. “Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.”
We’re close now, and every instinct in me splits—half screaming to step back, half daring me to see what happens if I don’t. The kitchen’s narrow, but it feels like it’s closing in on us. Her chest rises and falls fast. Mine does too. Steam from the pan fogs between us, curling in the charged air.
“Just admit it,” I say, voice low. “You liked having the space to yourself until I showed up.”
Her chin tips up, defiant. “Of course I did. You take up oxygen, Leo.”
That earns a humorless laugh from me. “You’re not exactly quiet either.”
“Excuse me?” Her voice climbs an octave. “You’re the one leaving gear in every corner! I’m one pair of skates away from tripping into the ER.”
“Maybe if you stopped moving everything—”
“Maybe if you respected boundaries!”
The word boundaries hangs there, sharp and echoing. I freeze, because suddenly this isn’t about spices or bags or kitchens. It’s about something deeper — the tension that’s been simmering since the first night I stayed here. The push and pull neither of us will name.
She realizes it too. I see it in the way her breath catches, the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her face before she masks it with irritation.
I take a step forward without thinking. She doesn’t move back.
We’re inches apart now, heat radiating between us. Her pulse flickers in her throat, quick and visible. My towel slips slightly at my hip, but I don’t move to fix it. Her gaze flickers down for half a second — half a second too long.
“This isn’t working,” she says, but her voice falters halfway through.
“Yeah,” I murmur, leaning in just enough for her breath to brush my skin. “I noticed.”
Her eyes snap to mine, full of fire and confusion and something dangerously close to want.
The argument doesn’t end. It just shifts — from words to silence, from logic to tension, from anger to something that feels a lot like hunger.
She doesn’t back away. Neither do I.
The silence between us hums, thick and electric, like the second before a storm breaks.
Her hands are still tight at her sides, but I can see the tremor in her fingers.
The pulse fluttering in her throat. She’s angry, yeah — but there’s something else under it.
Something I’ve been trying not to see for weeks.
I take another step, and she bumps against the counter. Nowhere left to go.
“Leo—” Her voice cracks my name in half, like it’s both a warning and a plea.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But the sight of her — cheeks flushed, eyes wide, chest rising fast — knocks the thought clean out of me. I brace my palms on the counter behind her, caging her in without touching. Steam still curls from the pan, the smell of garlic wrapping around us like heat.
“You drive me insane,” I say, low and rough.
Her breath hitches. “Then maybe you should move out.”
“Maybe I can’t.” I don’t even know what I mean by it until it’s out.
Her lips part like she’s going to snap back, but I don’t give her the chance. I lean in, just enough for my breath to catch hers. She stiffens — and then melts. Just a fraction. But it’s enough.
She shoves at my chest once, hard. “Don’t.”
I catch her wrist without thinking. Big mistake. Her skin is warm, soft, and when she freezes, so do I.
For a beat, neither of us moves.
Then she exhales shakily, and the air between us catches fire.
Her free hand finds my shoulder — maybe to push me again, maybe not — and the tension snaps like a live wire. I dip my head. She rises onto her toes. And then it happens.
The kiss is raw, angry, messy. It’s not slow or sweet or careful. It’s heat and frustration and too many nights of pretending this wasn’t coming. Her fingers curl into the towel at my hips, and I groan against her mouth, grip tightening on her waist.
Utensils clatter off the counter, forgotten. The stove clicks off when she twists, pulling me closer. It’s chaos — breath and touch and want. Her taste — salt and something sharp, maybe regret — hits like a punch.
By the time I lift her onto the counter, we’re both shaking. She drags me closer, her apron caught between us, hands threading into my damp hair.
And just when I think I’ll lose every ounce of control I’ve got left — she pulls back, chest heaving, eyes glassy.
“Leo,” she whispers, voice wrecked. “We can’t—”
But the word can’t sounds a lot like don’t stop.
For a second, neither of us breathes. The air feels scorched, charged. My hands are still on her hips; her fingers are buried in my hair. The room tilts around us, and I can’t tell where anger ends and want begins.
She swallows hard, gaze dropping to where my towel’s barely hanging on. “This—this is insane,” she says, though her voice doesn’t sound convinced.
“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over her lower lip. “It is.”
Her eyes flutter shut, just for a beat, and I feel her fight it — the pull, the want, the loss of control. Then she breathes out, shaky, and her hands slide down my chest. The touch burns. My pulse spikes.
“Sage,” I say, voice rough, but she doesn’t let me finish. She leans in again, kissing me like she hates herself for it, like she’s trying to erase every rule she ever made. It’s messy and desperate and perfect.
The towel slips completely this time. She gasps — half laugh, half shock — and fumbles for it, clutching it with both hands to keep it from hitting the floor. The move presses her tighter against me, and I lose whatever restraint I had left.
Her back bumps the cabinet edge, the motion awkward but real as my weight shifts to brace her.
The wood knocks a soft thud against her spine, grounding us both in the chaos, a wooden thud muffled by the sound of our breathing.
She moans softly — a sound that short-circuits every thought in my head.
I kiss her harder, deeper, until I can’t tell if it’s her heartbeat I feel or mine.
Somewhere in the chaos, her apron comes loose. I catch the tie before it falls, fingers brushing skin I shouldn’t touch. Her breath catches, and the sound nearly undoes me.
“Sage,” I growled, my voice rougher than I intended. “You’re killing me.”