A quiet, trembling breath escaped her as she felt the unmistakable warmth and strength of him there, the intimate proof of how deeply she affected him. She could feel him getting hard as she teasingly pressed her butt against his crouch...

However, Instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, into him, arching ever so slightly, offering herself with a vulnerability that made her heart flutter wildly in her chest.

His grip on her waist tightened, not in demand but in reverence, thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles over the fabric of her dress as if he were grounding himself in the reality of her.

He dipped his head, lips brushing the sensitive skin just beneath her ear, his voice a low, husky murmur that sent shivers racing down her spine.

"Sophie..." he breathed her name like a vow, like something sacred and longed-for. "You have no idea what you do to me."

She turned her head just enough to meet his gaze over her shoulder, her eyes dark with desire and something far softer, trust, affection, the quiet blooming of love she no longer wanted to hide.

One of her hands reached back, fingers threading gently through his hair, drawing him closer as she pressed against him again, slower this time, more deliberate, letting the heat between them build like a shared secret.

In such a intimate position, Stan followed her into the kitchen.

The counter was more organized than he’d expected, given everything she’d told him about the frantic grocery run at six in the morning. She’d set it up like she knew what she was doing, which, he was beginning to understand, she did.

The marinated chicken sat in the bowl, golden-tinged from whatever she’d soaked it in overnight.

A separate container held a seasoned coating mix , flour and something else, something reddish, paprika maybe, she’d measured and mixed it in advance.

The potatoes were already cut into thick, even fries and resting in a bowl of cold water to draw out the starch. He didn’t know that was a step. He didn’t know fries required steps.

"You did all of this this morning," he said, not quite a question.

"Most of it." Sophie was already pulling the plastic wrap off the chicken, efficient without being rushed. "The marinade needed time to settle anyway, so it worked out."

Stan leaned against the counter beside her, watching.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You can try."

"If I had said no," he said. "When you asked me to come. What would you have done with all of this?"

Sophie paused. She looked up at him with an expression that hovered for a moment between amusement and mild embarrassment before settling, as it often seemed to with her, on honesty.

"I would’ve cooked it anyway," she said. "Eaten what I could. And then taken the rest back to the dorm." The corner of her mouth curved. "Claire would’ve been very happy. She can eat a shocking amount of fried chicken for someone her size."

"You would have cooked the whole thing."

"The chicken was already marinated, Stan. You don’t waste a good marinade." She returned her attention to the bowl, adjusting the pieces. "And I wasn’t going to throw out something I spent this much thought on just because one person didn’t come. That would be sad."

"Sadder than cooking it alone, anyway."

Stan watched her profile for a moment.

"It’s a good thing, that you’re not wasteful." Stan said

Sophie glanced at him sidelong. "Was that a compliment?"

"It was an observation."

"It sounded like a compliment."

He tilted his head, considering her for a beat, then said lightly, "Call it both. I’m capable of that."

She huffed a quiet laugh. "Oh? Is that so?"

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Besides," he added, voice dropping just a fraction, "I already have something of yours. It’d be a shame to mishandle it."

She arched a brow. "And what exactly would that be?"

"Your heart," he said, easy, unhurried. "I intend to hold on to it."

She blinked, then laughed, caught off guard, pointing at him. "That’s mine. You can’t just take it."

"I didn’t take it," he replied calmly. "You let me have it."

"With no intention of giving it back, apparently."

"Would you want me to?"

She was still smiling when she turned back to the counter and reached for a fresh onion from the small mesh basket near the stove.

She pulled a knife from the block with the practiced ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times, and began to peel it.

Stan watched her for a moment, captivated by the quiet grace in her movements. The way her fingers handled the knife with effortless precision. The delicate line of concentration that formed between her brows, softening her features in the warm kitchen light.

Then he shifted closer, erasing the last bit of space between them. His hands settled at her waist, mirroring the way she had gestured to him moments earlier. For a moment, he simply caressed the curve there, savoring the warmth beneath her clothes. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, his palms slid lower, cupping her perfect ass and pressing it lightly.

The soft, yielding flesh filled his hands beautifully. It felt so good, so plush and inviting. He couldn’t wait to peel away the layers of fabric and feel the smooth, bare skin underneath.

"Ngh~" Sophie gasped, her body stiffening in surprise. She froze against him, clearly not expecting the bold touch.

The knife hovered motionless above the cutting board as her body registered his touch. A delicate shiver of awareness traveled through her, her lips parting on a silent inhale.

He said nothing. His hands simply rested there, possessive yet tender, slowly tracing the gentle dip and swell of her waist as if memorizing the shape of her. No rush. Just the steady, reassuring weight of his presence behind her, his chest brushing lightly against her back.

After a heartbeat, Sophie exhaled, long and slow.

The tension in her shoulders melted away like warmth spreading through honey. She leaned back, resting her head against the solid plane of his shoulder, letting her cheek nestle into the comforting strength of him.

His masculine scent, clean, warm, faintly spiced, enveloped her as she closed her eyes for a moment, surrendering to the quiet intimacy of the moment.