Leah
The hot water had washed away the flour, the sauce, and most of the chaos from the kitchen disaster. I stood in front of the mirror in Darien’s bathroom, combing through my damp hair, trying not to think about how comfortable I’d become in this space. How natural it felt to use his shower, to wrap myself in one of the thick towels from his cabinet, to move through his room like it was partially mine.
That thought alone should have terrified me. But tonight, after the laughter and the ghost peppers, and the way he’d looked at me with pasta sauce dripping down his face, I couldn’t quite summon the fear.
The pizza was delicious. Better than I’d expected, honestly. We’d eaten it sitting on the floor of the main room, plates balanced on our knees, with Cain making increasingly dramatic
