Billy had been halfway through his set, sweat clinging to his back, arms tense from the last rep when he caught the smell. Vanilla and chocolate chip. Sweet. Domestic. Too damn comforting for a place like this.

He dropped the weights with a thud, chest still rising and falling as his eyes followed the soft curve of her back from across the room. She was at the counter, humming to herself, hair pulled up, wearing that stupid shirt she’d stolen from him months ago and refused to give back. She was barefoot. Always barefoot in the house like it was hers. Like she belonged here.

Maybe she did.

The kitchen lights caught the golden sheen of her skin, the way she moved like she wasn’t tiptoeing around chaos. Like she hadn’t spent the night before icing his ribs while pretending not to notice how close his hand rested to her thigh. Like she wasn’t the only damn person who ever looked at him like he was something worth fixing.

Billy rolled his neck and crossed the room, slow, lazy on purpose. He didn’t need a reason to mess with her. She’d baked the damn cookies, that was reason enough.

Billy stepped closer, brushing past her just enough to make it obvious. The heat between them was thick, unspoken, and always simmering just beneath the surface. He liked it that way. Safe in the in-between. Too close to be siblings, too careful to be something else.

“What’s with the June Cleaver act, princess?” He muttered as he leaned against the fridge, smirking, eyes scanning her like a challenge. “Baking for the whole damn football team, or just one lucky bastard?”

He knew she hated when he said stuff like that. Which, of course, meant he said it all the time.

She didn’t flinch, didn’t even look at him. Just kept stirring like his words didn’t crawl under her skin. That pissed him off and turned him on in equal measure.