It was supposed to be just another sleepover—something we’d done countless times before. But somehow, tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way she laughed more freely, or the way I couldn’t seem to stop finding excuses to touch her.

“Okay, chef, what’s next?” she asked, standing beside me in the kitchen, hands on her hips.

I smirked, reaching around her to grab a spice jar from the counter. My arm brushed against hers, lingering just a little too long. “You tell me, sous-chef. You’re the one who wanted to make something fancy.”

She rolled her eyes, but I caught the way she bit her lip, trying to hide a smile.

We moved around the kitchen in sync, bumping shoulders, me sneaking small touches—my hand at the small of her back when she reached for a pan, fingers brushing hers when I passed her the knife. She never pulled away. If anything, she leaned in.

“You’re being weird tonight,” she mused as she stirred the sauce, glancing at me over her shoulder.

I raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know… just different.”

I grinned, stepping closer. “Maybe I’m just enjoying our little dinner date.”

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Lando, this isn’t a date. It's a sleepover.”

I tilted my head. “Isn’t it?”

She paused, spoon hovering over the pot. For a split second, I thought she was finally going to see it—see me. But then she laughed again, dismissing it like always.

I sighed, leaning against the counter. “One day, you’re gonna realize I’m not joking.”

She shot me a playful look. “We’ll see about that.”

I smirked, bumping my hip against hers. “Yeah. We will, pretty girl.”