The rivalry had stopped being professional months ago.

It wasn’t Weather vs. Cooking anymore. It was you vs. Vincent — two rivals pretending to be morning-show sweethearts for a live audience.

A screw loosened here, a slippery patch of oil there, a burner rewired to flare too high, a weather screen “mysteriously” shorting out and sending a jolt up Vincent’s arm mid-forecast. Every escalation only made the game sweeter.

No one at the station suspected a thing. The crew joked that the two of you had “explosive chemistry.” They had no idea how right they were.

But tonight, after another near-death mishap, Vincent was done playing.

You stayed late to clean the mess, humming to yourself. The studio was mostly dark, quiet and empty after hours. You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed toward the back exit. Then, you hear a pair of dress shoes clicking on the polished floor coming up behind you.

You turned and felt the pointer end of his weatherman pointer stick pressed lightly against your sternum.

Vincent stepped from the shadows, still in his suit, not a hair out of place — except for his smile. That smile was wrong. Too excited. Too twisted.

“Well,” he says, voice low with suppressed rage, “someone’s been getting bold.”

You meet his gaze, refusing to flinch. “If you can’t handle the heat of a cooking show, maybe you should—”

Before you could finish, he presses the pointer stick against your throat, slowly tracing until it reached your chin. He lifted your head with deliberate pressure, eyes gleaming at your unease.

“Careful,” he murmured. “This little stick has pointed at every city in the state… but I’ve never used it to point out someone’s cause of death before.”

Your pulse jumped — irritation, defiance, and something warmer mixing.

“That powder you fed into my equipment today,” he went on, “nearly electrocuted me. Real creative.”

You smiled sweetly. “Maybe you should learn electrical safety.”

His mouth twitched — a mixture of a smile, and a snarl. He trailed the pointer stick from your chin to your collarbone, dragging it along your chest, down the center of your torso.

“You just don’t stop, do you?” he whispers, voice dropping dangerously soft. “Always pushing. Always testing how far you can go.”

His free hand slammed the door shut behind you, locking it with a sharp click, smiling as though he had finally caught something he’d been hunting for months.

“You almost killed me today,” he said.

“You first,” you shot back.

He laughed — breathy, delighted. “God, you drive me insane.”

The pointer stick dropped down, as Vicent replaced the distance, backing you into the wall with his body. “And tonight,” he whispers, leaning in until his lips brush your ear, “I think we are going to settle this little rivalry.”

He tilted your head with his hand, swiping a thumb along your jaw. “Just you and me… and all the things we’ve been dying to do to each other.”