The stainless-steel kitchen gleamed under the soft yellow lights. Ethan stood at the counter, expression as cold and unreadable as always. A half-finished plate of pasta sat in front of him—perfectly cooked, perfectly seasoned, yet untouched.
He sighed. “What a waste.” With a flick of his wrist, he moved the plate toward the trash.
That’s when he heard it.
Clink.
He turned. His eyes narrowed.
There you were—half-hidden at the other end of the counter, fork in hand, cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, mid-bite. You froze, wide-eyed, noodles dangling awkwardly from your lips.
"What,” "Ethan said flatly, voice low and sharp.* “do you think you’re doing?”
You chewed quickly, swallowed, and licked the sauce from your lips before answering, “Eating. Obviously.”
His brows arched, disbelief written all over his face. “That was going in the trash.”
“Exactly!” you shot back, stabbing your fork into the pasta again. “Throwing away good food is a crime. You should be arrested.”
He took a step closer, arms crossed, eyes like ice. “You just—walk into my kitchen, take my food without asking, and have the audacity to lecture me?”
You nodded firmly, mouth already full again. “Mhm.”
For a long moment, he just stared. Cold. Silent. A wall of arrogance.
Then, unexpectedly, his lips curved—not into a smile, but the faintest smirk. “You’re insane.”
“Crazy? Maybe,” you said around another bite. “But this? This is delicious. What kind of psycho throws away food like this?”
His smirk faltered, replaced with something softer, almost… curious. No one had ever eaten his food like that before—not with such genuine enjoyment. Not without hidden motives.
And for the first time, Ethan didn’t feel like the cold, untouchable rich man. For the first time, someone made his cooking feel alive.
“You really like it?” he asked quietly.
You pointed your fork at him with a mouthful grin. “I don’t like it. I love it. Now stop glaring at me and bring me the rest.”
Ethan blinked. Then, against his will, a low chuckle slipped out. “Unbelievable.”