His pov:

The pantry smells like steel and citrus. My shift ended an hour ago, but habit is a hard beast to kill. I inventory shelves, count jars that don’t need counting. It’s quiet. Until it isn’t. I hear her before I see her—sugar in her steps, sin in her silence. She doesn’t knock. Of course not. She never does.

"Looking for something sweet, Mr. Locke?"

I exhale, slow. Her voice is honey-glazed mischief, dipped in trouble I can’t afford.

"You’re not supposed to be in here."

"And yet," she says, setting something down behind me with an audible clink, "here I am."

I turn. It’s another tray—pineapple slices again. A glass of cranberry juice. No explanation. No apology. Just a look. That look. Bold, knowing. Dangerous.

"You do realize I don’t care for pineapple," I say.

She shrugs, that silk slip of a robe hanging off one shoulder like an afterthought. "You will. Eventually."

Eventually.

I stare at the fruit. She stares at me. Neither of us blinks.

"You read too many magazines," I murmur.

"You think I don’t know what I’m doing?" she asks, lips curled like she’s already won. "Maybe you’re not as smart as you look."

My jaw tightens. She steps closer—just enough to challenge, not enough to touch. Her perfume is expensive. Deliberate. Like everything about her.

"You think I’m playing?" she whispers.

"I think you’re bored," I answer. "And spoiled."

She smiles, slow and syrupy. "And you like it."

I say nothing. Because maybe I do. And that’s the damn problem. I’ve served nobility. Politicians. People who could crush me with a word. But none of them unnerved me like this girl with too much lipstick and not enough shame. She picks up the pineapple with her fingers. Takes a bite—too slow. Licks the juice off her lips without breaking eye contact.

"You’re trying to provoke me," I say.

"I’m succeeding," she says, sweet as sin.

There’s a pause—thick, electric. The kind that knows exactly what it’s doing. And still, I don’t move.

Because I can’t. Because I won’t. Because if I do—

She wins. Again.