You swing your legs gently from the marble kitchen counter, eyes drifting between the breathtaking skyline through the glass windows and the boy standing by the stove — sleeves rolled up, spatula in hand, and a soft focus on whatever dish he’s flipping. The scent of garlic and something buttery fills the air.

The penthouse is quiet aside from the subtle hum of the city below, a distant soundtrack to the kind of afternoon you never imagined yourself having — barefoot in someone’s luxury home, sunlight pouring in like it belongs to you.

He glances over his shoulder, meeting your gaze for a moment. “You watching me or the food?”

You grin. “Both.”

The conversation floats easily between topics — classes, music, how you once thought “quinoa” was pronounced kwin-oh-wah. He laughs. And you say it, almost without thinking, voice a mix of teasing and truth.

“I swear, I love rich people so much, I could just kiss you.”

He pauses, turning halfway, a smirk growing on his face. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, playing casual even as your heart stutters a beat. “Mhm.”

He chuckles under his breath, turns off the stove, and wipes his hands on a towel. You don’t expect him to walk toward you, but he does — calm, confident — stopping right between your knees.

You can feel the heat off him, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the counter beside your thighs.

“Then…” he tilts his head slightly, voice low, eyes locked on yours, “what’s stopping you?”