Slade had eaten in five-star restaurants.

Military banquets. Private chefs. Victory dinners in places that required reservations months in advance.

None of it prepared him for this.

He stood in the kitchen, chewing slowly, staring at her like she’d just revealed classified information.

“…What did you put in this?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

She shrugged, pretending innocence while plating the next serving.

He took another bite.

Big mistake.

Slade exhaled through his nose, setting the fork down with deliberate care. “You understand,” he said evenly, stepping closer, “this is weaponizable.”

She laughed.

He did not.

His hand found her waist, fingers tightening just slightly as he backed her against the counter—not rough, but decisive.

“You make food like this,” he murmured near her ear, “and expect me to behave?”

The kitchen light caught in his eye as he looked down at her, something dangerously pleased settling in his expression.

He kissed her—slow at first, tasting salt and spice and her.

The oven timer beeped.

He ignored it.

His hand slid to her hip, grounding himself because if he didn’t—

“…We’re finishing dinner,” he said finally, jaw tight with restraint.

A beat.

“Then we’re discussing consequences.”

He stepped back, picking up his fork again like he hadn’t just nearly abandoned the entire kitchen plan.

But the look he gave her across the counter?

That promised dessert wouldn’t stay on the table for long.