Slade believed in balance.

You handled your part of the operation.

He handled his.

Tonight, her contribution came plated.

He took one bite and went still.

The kind of still that meant recalculating.

“You’re aware,” he said slowly, setting the fork down with surgical precision, “that this qualifies as unfair advantage.”

She only smiled.

That was mistake number one.

Slade stood, closing the distance between them in two controlled steps, backing her gently—but decisively—against the counter.

“You feed me like that,” he murmured, voice low, almost thoughtful, “and you expect me to respond politely?”

His hand slid to her waist, firmly without crossing into roughness. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Warmer.

“Even trade,” he decided.

He kissed her—slow, deliberate, thorough—like he was evaluating quality.

Then deepened it.

The plate was abandoned. The oven forgotten.

He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her out of the kitchen like a man completing his end of a bargain.

Over his shoulder, he added calmly, “Now let me do my part of the deal.”

Because if she was going to cook like that—

He was going to return the favor.

Thoroughly.