Isla laughed—quiet, genuine, the kind that slipped out before she could stop it. It folded into her chest and spilled free, her head tipping forward as if the sound itself needed somewhere to land. If there was truth in his concern about separation anxiety, she clearly wasn’t interested in disputing it.

She followed him without saying much after that. Didn’t need to. The kitchen held him in motion—Julian moving toward her with the tray, the soft clink of ceramic, the easy confidence of his body in her space. She noticed everything. The way he crossed the room. The faint scrape of the chair leg he nudged aside. The quiet proof of the night before—her leggings still rumpled on the floor by the counter, his other shirt abandoned there too, like evidence of something that had been decided without words.

Domestic. Unrushed. Real.

She loved it more than she expected to.

When his eyes caught on her in his shirt, she lifted a brow, a slow smile tugging at her mouth. “You know,” she said lightly, finally breaking the quiet, “the hazard of this arrangement for me is ripped leggings and you spoiling me beyond reason.”

She gestured vaguely at herself. “Your hazard is that I will steal your clothes and look objectively better in them.”

Back in the bedroom, she settled against the headboard as he set the tray down, accepting the mug from him with both hands. She didn’t drink. Just held it, warmth seeping into her palms while her attention stayed fixed on him—on how natural he looked there, how easy it all felt. Like this version of the morning had been waiting for them to catch up.

Lucky didn’t even begin to cover it. She felt chosen. Kept. Entirely his.

Her gaze softened as he offered her the toast. Then—without warning—it sharpened. Something playful and intent slid into her eyes as she opened her mouth and took a bite, never breaking eye contact. She chewed slowly, deliberately, then closed her eyes as if the taste deserved reverence.

When she swallowed, she smiled. “Perfect,” she said. “The toast. And the presentation. Truly inspired work.”

Only then did she lift the mug and take a sip of the tea.

Her expression shifted immediately—eyes widening, nose wrinkling just slightly as if she were trying very hard not to offend. She glanced at him, then away, then back again, clearly attempting composure while something like concern flickered across his face.

She let it linger just long enough.

Then her eyes went mischievous.

“Oh—relax,” she said warmly. “It’s perfect. I just wanted to see if you’d panic.”

She leaned in a little closer, smile softening again. “You didn’t mess it up. Not a single thing.”

Julian watched her eat the toast like a hawk, his own breakfast temporarily forgotten on the tray between them. He sat cross-legged on the mattress, balancing his plate on one knee, vibrating with a ridiculous amount of nerves.

When she mentioned the hazards of their arrangement—the casualties of her wardrobe versus the theft of his—he let out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head.

"I’m willing to absorb the losses," he countered, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he looked at her in the oversized shirt. "Rip all the leggings you want. As for the shirt... I think I’ve already conceded defeat on that front. It’s a hostile takeover, and I’m not even fighting it. You look..." He paused, searching for the word, then settled on a grin. "You look like trouble.”

He watched her take the bite of toast, holding his breath until the verdict came down.

Perfect. He exhaled, feeling a disproportionate surge of pride.

"Excellent," he said, picking up his own fork. "Notes for the chef. I'll cherish them."
Then she took a sip of the tea.

Julian froze. He saw the nose wrinkle. He saw the hesitation. His brain immediately went into a tailspin. Did he use the salt instead of the sugar? Was the milk off? Did he steep it too long and make it bitter? She was British; making a bad cup of tea was practically a deportable offense.

He opened his mouth to apologize, to offer to run back to the kitchen, when she dropped the act.

I just wanted to see if you’d panic.

Julian’s jaw went slack. He stared at her for a full three seconds, the realization that he’d been played washing over him. He let out a sharp hiss of air through his teeth, closing his eyes briefly as he shook his head, fighting back a smile that was determined to break through his feigned indignation.

"You are evil," he declared, opening his eyes to glare at her without any actual heat. "That was cruel, Isla. Diabolical. My heart rate actually spiked."

He leaned in then, encroaching on her space, the playfulness warring with the relief in his chest.

"Don't scare me like that," he murmured, his voice dropping to a lower, huskier register as her reassurance settled over him. You didn’t mess it up.

He reached out, his thumb brushing a crumb from the corner of her mouth, his gaze lingering on her lips.

"I'm glad," he said softly, the boyish charm melting into something simpler and more sincere. "Because I really want to get this right. The tea. The toast." He looked her in the eyes. "Everything."

Once the last crumb of sourdough had been chased down with the last dregs of tea, Julian declared the breakfast in bed experiment a resounding success. But being Julian—and still riding the high of his "perfect" rating—he insisted on clearing the debris.

He carried the tray back out to the kitchen, the morning light now pouring in through the windows, making the whole space feel bright and airy. He set the tray down near the sink, stacking the plates with a quiet efficiency that suggested he’d done his fair share of washing up before he had people to do it for him.

He poured himself a fresh splash of tea from the pot, not bothering with milk this time, and turned around.

He leaned back against the edge of the counter, his long legs crossing at the ankles, the ceramic mug cradled in both hands against his chest. He looked relaxed, completely at ease in the chaos of her kitchen, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a grin.

As he took a sip, his eyes found her—Isla, still in his shirt, padding into the room or just hovering nearby. He lowered the mug, steam curling around his nose, and tilted his head.

"You know," he mused, the boyish charm in full force as he surveyed the scene: the empty plates, the sunlight, the girl in his clothes. "I could get used to this. The domestic life. It’s surprisingly... distinct. Lower stakes than on set, but the reviews are much harsher."

He tapped the rim of his mug with a finger, his eyes dancing.

"So, what’s the protocol for the rest of the day, boss? Do we hide out here until the food runs out? Build a pillow fort? Or do you eventually have to give me back my shirt and return to civilization?"

Isla watched him for a moment longer after the panic faded from his face, clearly enjoying herself. There was a particular satisfaction in knowing exactly how to undo him—and then choosing to be gentle about it.

She tilted her head, eyes bright. “For the record,” she added lightly, “if the tea had been bad, I would’ve lied. I’m not a monster.”

Then she reached out and brushed her thumb along his jaw, softening the moment on purpose. “It’s perfect,” she reassured him again, quieter now. “All of it.”

When he moved to clear the tray, she followed without thinking, barefoot on cool floors, the loft still humming with the aftermath of the night before. In the kitchen, she rinsed her mug and set it in the sink beside his, a small, instinctive gesture. She wasn’t hungry anymore. Not for food. Not even for attention. She felt full in the strangest, best way—of him, of the ease of this morning, of the way everything felt settled instead of charged.

Her eyes drifted down.

The leggings were still there, abandoned on the floor near the counter like an accusation.

She picked them up, examined the damage with mock seriousness, then glanced at him over her shoulder. “Correction,” she said dryly. “I’m fairly certain you’re the one who ripped these.”

She crossed the kitchen and dropped them into the trash without hesitation. “They were my favorites,” she added, then shrugged. “But I suppose what happened on the counter… and the table… and the wall… and the floor… and the bath—”

She smiled to herself.

“Worth it.”

She bent to retrieve his discarded shirt next, lifting it carefully, inspecting the missing buttons. “This one,” she decided, “might still be salvageable. Barely. We’ll see if it survives the washing machine.”

She set it neatly on the counter.

Then she turned back to him.

Something mischievous sparked in her eyes—memory and intent mingling as she walked toward him slowly, her body still humming with echoes of the night before. He caught it instantly, instinctively setting his mug down just before she reached him.

She pressed into his space, pinning him gently but decisively against the counter, hands braced on either side of his hips. Close. Certain.

“So,” she murmured, amusement threading her voice, “about this separation anxiety…”

She leaned in, just enough to let him feel her there. “I’m not going anywhere. And if I do have to leave the house, you’re coming with me.”

A beat.

“Though,” she added, softer, more honest, “I’ve already decided that unless we absolutely have to exist in public, I’d rather stay right here. With you. All day.”

Her smile curved slow and sure.

“Seems safer.”

Julian let out a low, rough sound—half laugh, half exhale—as she listed the crime scenes, his hands finding purchase on her waist. The warmth of her palms against the counter on either side of him effectively trapped him, a cage he had zero intention of breaking out of.

He looked down at her, the boyish smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth belying the darkening intent in his eyes.

“A casualty report,” he noted dryly, glancing toward the trash can where her leggings had met their demise. “I’ll replace them. Silk, cashmere, whatever you want. Consider it a tax for my lack of restraint.”

His gaze flicked to the shirt on the counter, then back to her, his expression shifting into something more amused, more proprietary. “The shirt, however, knew the risks when it signed up for duty. It died an honorable death. I’ll write a eulogy later.”

When she pressed closer, addressing the separation anxiety, his grip on her waist tightened just a fraction, thumbs brushing the bare skin there. He didn’t shy away from the accusation; if anything, he leaned into it, resting his forehead against hers, closing the distance until they were sharing the same breath.

“It’s not anxiety, Isla,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that deep, intimate register that was for her ears alone. “It’s efficiency. Why would I want to be anywhere else—wandering around rainy London—when everything I want is standing right here in this kitchen, barefoot and terrorizing my wardrobe?”

He listened to her proposal about staying in—about the safety of it—and the smirk softened into a genuine, dangerously charming smile.

“Safer for the general public, maybe,” he agreed, tilting his head to brush a kiss just below her ear, lingering there. “Because if we go out, I’m going to have a very hard time remembering that I’m supposed to be a civilized human being and not just… yours.”

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, the humor fading into raw honesty.

“We stay in,” he decided. “I’ll cook. You supervise. And if any more clothes get ruined…” He shrugged, a gesture of elegant surrender. “We’ll just have to adjust the budget.”

Isla didn’t answer right away.

She stayed exactly where she had pinned him, palms flat to the counter on either side of his hips, her body close enough to feel the small changes in him—the tightening of his grip at her waist, the way his breath slowed when she didn’t fill the space with words. She let him talk. Let him run his mouth the way he always did when he was pleased and a little undone, when he was trying to wrap charm around something that was almost too honest to say plainly.

Efficiency, he’d called it.

As if her presence was simply the most logical place for him to be.

She watched his mouth form the words, watched the flicker of amusement in his eyes and the darker, steadier thing beneath it. She held still and absorbed it like warmth—quietly, greedily—because it felt like being chosen in a language her body understood better than her mind ever could.

And then his mouth brushed just below her ear.

Isla’s eyes fluttered closed involuntarily, lashes grazing her cheeks. Not dramatic—just reflex. Like her nervous system had learned him overnight and decided this was the switch that powered everything down. Her breath caught, soft and almost silent, and for a second all she could do was lean into the kiss, letting the lingering pressure of it settle under her skin.

Yours.

That word didn’t land like possession. It landed like arrival.

She opened her eyes again when he pulled back, looking at him with a calm that didn’t match the way her pulse had betrayed her. She still didn’t speak. Not yet. She just watched him—this tall, infuriating man in her kitchen, acting like staying with her was the simplest decision in the world.

When he finished—when he shrugged and surrendered so beautifully—she let the silence hang for a beat longer than necessary, purely for the pleasure of it.

Then Isla’s mouth curved, slow and sharp.

“You say ‘adjust the budget’,” she murmured, voice dry as paper but threaded with something warm, “like you’re not about to go bankrupt.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward the trash, then back up to his face, eyes bright with mischief. “At this rate, you’ll need a dedicated clothing fund. A direct debit. Possibly an accountant.”

She shifted closer—not much, just enough to let him feel the weight of her there again. Her hands slid from the counter to his waist, fingers curling lightly into the skin at his sides as if to underline her point.

“And I’m going to be honest,” she added, tone matter-of-fact in a way that made it worse, “I don’t think it stops at clothes.”

A pause. Her eyes dipped to the counter behind him, to the edge of the table in the next room, the couch visible down the hall like an innocent bystander.

“I give it… two more days before we break furniture.”

She tipped her head, studying him like she was making a professional estimate. “Maybe less. Depending on your… efficiency.”

Her mouth softened at the corner, fondness slipping in like a tell she didn’t bother hiding. She still held his gaze as she spoke, letting the flirtation sit right alongside the humor like it belonged there—which it did.

“And for the record,” she went on, quieter now, “the general public will survive without seeing me.”

She brushed her thumb once over his hip, a small, intimate motion. “But I’m not convinced you will.”

The tiniest lift of her brows. A challenge, almost gentle.

“So yes,” she decided, leaning in until her lips were near his again, close enough that her words warmed his mouth. “We stay in.”

A beat.

“You cook,” she agreed, “because you’re insufferably proud of yourself.”

Another beat, and then her eyes went soft again—something private passing between them as if the room had disappeared.

“And I supervise,” she finished, “because apparently I have… clinically significant separation anxiety.”

Her lips brushed the corner of his mouth—barely a kiss, more like punctuation.

Then, with a faint, pleased exhale, she stayed right there, close and unhurried, as if she’d already decided the rest of the day would be spent in the exact same radius of him—tea cooling on the counter, London outside the windows, and the two of them choosing the same place over and over again.

Julian huffed a soft laugh at her first jab, the sound warm and low.
“Bankrupt?” he echoed, glancing down at himself like he was taking inventory. “Please. I’ve survived worse fiscal decisions than you and your dangerously persuasive tone. But yes—fine—if there’s a clothing fund, I’m blaming you entirely. I’ll even label it in my budgeting app: Isla-induced casualties.”

When she mentioned an accountant, his mouth tipped into a grin.
“I already have one,” he said lightly. “She’s going to love this chapter of my life. Very character-building.”

Her hands sliding to his waist didn’t go unnoticed—his breath shifted, but his voice stayed easy.
“And I appreciate your honesty,” he added. “Especially about the furniture. I just bought this couch. It deserves a long, dignified life.”

At her estimate of two days, he pretended to consider it seriously.
“Optimistic,” he mused. “I admire your faith in my efficiency.”

When she said the public would survive without seeing her, his expression softened, something fond settling in his eyes.
“They’ll survive,” he agreed. “But they’ll definitely be missing out. Their loss.”

Her thumb brushing his hip earned a quieter smile.
“And me?” he continued gently. “I’m… adaptable. But I’d strongly prefer you within arm’s reach, if we’re being honest.”

When she decided they were staying in, he nodded like that had always been the plan.
“Perfect,” he said. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

At her declaration that he’d cook, he lifted a brow.
“Insufferably proud?” he repeated. “That’s unfair. I’m moderately proud. Tastefully smug.”

Her offer to supervise made him chuckle.
“Good. I need someone to keep me humble. And stop me from putting garlic in things that absolutely do not require garlic.”

When she confessed her “clinically significant separation anxiety,” his grin softened into something tender.
“I’ll take it,” he said quietly. “I’m… very okay with being your emotional support human today.”

And when her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, he leaned just a fraction closer—still gentle, still careful.
“Alright,” Julian murmured, eyes warm. “We stay in. We cook. We hover in each other’s personal space.”

A beat.

“Frankly,” he added with a crooked smile, “I can’t think of a better way to spend the day.”

Isla didn’t move. Instead, she stepped deeper into the cradle of his thighs, her hands sliding from his waist to the small of his back, effectively tethering him to the granite. She loved the height of him, the way he occupied space with such a lean, skeletal elegance, but she loved this more—the way he became a willing prisoner to her proximity.

The kitchen still smelled of the Earl Grey they’d just shared, a sharp contrast to the primal, heavy energy that had lived here just hours before. Seeing him now, with his hair a sleep-mussed catastrophe and that boyish, lopsided grin, made her chest ache with a terrifying kind of fondness
"Tastefully smug," she repeated, her voice a low, velvety purr as she tilted her head back to meet his gaze. "I’ll be the judge of that when I see your knife skills later. Though I suspect your 'adaptability' is going to be tested quite thoroughly before we ever get to the garlic."

She reached up, her fingers tracing the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw. She was in no rush; the monster was still there—she could see it in the darkening depths of his pupils—but she wanted to savor the man first. She wanted to play with the fuse before she lit it.

"You're very sweet when you're being an emotional support human," she whispered, her gaze dropping to his mouth. "But I think I prefer you a little less... restrained."

She leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips—not a demand, but a promise that tasted of the sourdough and tea they'd just finished. She felt his breath hitch, a jagged, low sound that vibrated through her own chest. Moving downward, she trailed wet, open-mouthed kisses along the cord of his neck, pausing to give him a sharp, playful nibble right over his pulse point.

"Careful, Julian," she murmured against his skin, her breath hot and provocative. "If you keep being this charming, I might actually forget that there’s a much more dangerous man lurking underneath all that Swedish politeness. And I'd hate for him to feel neglected."

She dropped lower, her lips finding the pale, expansive warmth of his bare chest. She mapped the lean muscle with her mouth, her kisses becoming softer, more deliberate, as she worked her way down his sternum. She gave him another tiny, teasing bite near his lower ribs, her fingers digging into his back as she felt his hands tighten instinctively on her hips.

Finally, she sank to her knees, her last kiss landing with proprietary softness just above the gray waistband of his sweats. She stayed there for a heartbeat, her forehead resting against his stomach, listening to the way his breathing had turned into a ruined, shallow mess.

Mission accomplished. The trap was set.

Isla stood back up, smoothing her hair with a poise that was entirely at odds with the havoc she had just caused. She gave him a bright, innocent smile, the kind that suggested she was thinking of nothing more scandalous than a crossword puzzle.

"Now," she said, her voice bright and sickeningly wholesome. "Since we have the whole day and you're being so adaptable, I think we should start with something productive. Like that 1,000-piece puzzle of the English countryside I’ve been ignoring. Or perhaps we could finally start that foreign film you've been telling me I must see?"

She patted his cheek affectionately, her eyes dancing with the knowledge that she had just left him vibrating with a need that a cardboard landscape or subtitles were definitely not going to solve.

"Sound like a plan, darling?"

Julian didn’t stop her, but he did freeze for half a second—like his brain lagged behind his body, trying to process the absolute chaos she’d just unleashed in his kitchen.

By the time she straightened back up, all bright eyes and angelic smile, he looked… wrecked. Not in a dramatic way. Just the soft, stunned kind—hair even more disheveled now, breath slightly off rhythm, the corners of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or surrender.

He blinked once. Then again.

“…You,” he said slowly, voice low and fond and very much trying to pretend he still had full cognitive function, “are an actual menace.”

His hands were still on her hips—had been the whole time—but now they loosened, sliding to her sides as he leaned his forehead briefly against hers, letting out a breath that was half laugh, half resignation.

“Do you know how unfair it is,” he murmured, “to commit emotional arson and then immediately suggest a puzzle?”

He straightened, brushing his thumb gently over her cheek where she’d just patted him, eyes warm and openly amused.

“A thousand pieces,” he repeated. “So… what you’re saying is, you want to watch me slowly lose my sanity over a cardboard river and some aggressively similar-looking trees.”

At the mention of the foreign film, his smile went crooked.
“And I told you it’s life-changing. Subtitles, longing stares, tragic weather. It’s basically my brand.”

He stepped back just enough to give her space—but not really distance—his hands lifting in mock surrender.

“Alright,” he said. “Puzzle or film. I’ll even let you choose, since you’ve clearly earned some kind of chaotic authority status today.”

A beat.

“But,” he added, eyes glinting, “if you sabotage either of them halfway through with that innocent smile again, I’m filing a formal complaint.”

He reached for her hand, squeezing it once—soft, grounding, still playful.

“So, Miss Productive Chaos… what’s it going to be?”

He reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering there just a second longer than necessary—like he was memorizing the feeling.

“I’ve really fallen for you,” he added, quiet and honest, like it surprised him and didn’t at all. “Hard. Fast. With zero self-preservation.”

A tiny shrug. A crooked grin.

“Which is ironic,” he went on lightly, “because I pride myself on being a sensible man.”

Then he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple—unhurried, affectionate, full of something that felt dangerously like home.

“So,” he said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes again, “go ahead. Choose our fate.”

Puzzle. Film. Chaos.

“I’m yours either way.”

Isla felt the breath leave her lungs, not in a rush, but in a slow, steady exhale that seemed to carry the last of her defenses with it.

Hearing him say it—hard, fast, with zero self-preservation—did something to the air in the kitchen. It stripped away the playfulness for a split second, leaving behind something raw and blindingly bright. She looked at him, really looked at him, taking in the sincerity in those pale eyes, the way his thumb was still ghosting over her cheekbone as if she were made of porcelain.

She realized then that for all her posturing about independence, she had been waiting a very long time for someone reckless enough to fall without a parachute.

A soft, genuine smile broke through her composure, softening the mischief in her gaze until it was just pure affection. She reached up, covering his hand on her cheek with her own, leaning into his touch.

"Well," she murmured, her voice laced with a quiet, devastating tenderness. "It’s a good thing I have absolutely no interest in sensible men. They’re terribly boring at parties, and they certainly don’t know how to handle me."

She turned her face to press a kiss into the center of his palm, her eyes fluttering shut for a heartbeat before she snapped them open again, the sparkle returning.

"And for the record, Julian, I think your self-preservation instinct died the moment you followed a strange woman to dinner in London. Don't try to rewrite history now."

She stepped back, finally releasing him from his granite prison, though she trailed her hand down his arm as she moved, reluctant to break contact entirely. She walked toward the living room, her hips swaying with a casual, confident grace, knowing his eyes were on her.

"As for our fate," she called over her shoulder, pausing in the doorway to look back at him. "I think we’ll go with the puzzle. There is something delightfully masochistic about staring at five hundred pieces of identical blue sky."

She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms and tilting her head, her smile turning wicked.

"Besides, I want to see just how patient you really are. Consider it a test. If you can handle the English countryside without losing your temper..." She let her eyes drop to his hands—those large, capable hands that had been everywhere on her just hours ago—and then slowly dragged her gaze back up to his face. "I might be inclined to offer a distraction. A very... unsensible distraction."

She winked, turned on her heel, and walked into the living room.

"Come along, darling. The aggressively similar-looking trees aren't going to sort themselves."

Julian stayed where he was for a second after she slipped past him, just watching her go like he was trying to memorize the way she moved through her own space. Her kitchen. Her doorway. Her house. Everything about it felt intimate in a way no hotel or borrowed room ever could.

Her words hit him in soft, deliberate waves.

At no interest in sensible men, his mouth tipped into a helpless smile, fond and a little wrecked.
“Thank God,” he said quietly, shaking his head. “I’d be wildly underqualified.”

When she kissed his palm, his breath caught — not dramatic, just honest. He let his thumb trace her cheek once more before she stepped back, like he wasn’t quite ready to lose contact yet.

“And yeah,” he admitted with a soft laugh when she accused him of losing his survival instinct in London, “that sounds about right. I followed you into a restaurant and never emotionally recovered.”

He pushed off the counter and followed her toward the living room, careful not to crowd her, but clearly not planning to stay behind. Her house, her lead. Always.

At the doorway, when she turned with that wicked smile and declared the puzzle their fate, he leaned one shoulder against the frame, eyes bright.

“Five hundred identical trees,” he said solemnly. “This is how legends are born. Or how people snap and start talking to furniture.”

When she mentioned testing his patience, his brows lifted.

“Oh, this is a trial?” he teased. “Should I have brought references? Character witnesses?”

Her glance at his hands didn’t go unnoticed — his lips curved slowly.

“I’d like to formally state for the record,” he added, voice lighter but eyes warm, “that I am extremely distractible. So whatever happens after the puzzle is… on you.”

He stepped fully into the living room now, nudging past her just enough to grab the puzzle box off the side table.

“But I will give it an honest attempt,” he promised, tapping the lid. “For science. And your entertainment.”

Then, softer — just for her:

“And because I like being exactly where I am.”

He met her gaze, open and unguarded, like he wasn’t even pretending he wasn’t falling.

“Lead the way, puzzle tyrant.”