The new kitchen gleamed like a crime scene waiting to happen—too many knives, too much pressure, too many egos crammed into one beautiful, brutal room. You adjusted your apron, forcing your face into something neutral. Professional. Calm.

Then Luca walked in.

Early as always. Wearing black, sleeves pushed up, tattoos inked down his arms like promises he had no intention of keeping.

You hated that he looked good. Hated it more that he clocked you immediately—one glance, sharp and assessing, mouth twitching at the corner like he already knew he was going to win whatever this was.

Or maybe—maybe you were just starting a different kind of war.

---

It started with something stupid. It always did.

You reached for the basil at the same time he did, hands colliding, knives dangerously close. A stupid dance of elbows and sharp words that ended with the two of you standing there—breathing hard, glaring like the only oxygen left in the room was between your teeth.

Luca’s eyes narrowed, slow and deliberate as you warn him about being too close. Luca just smiled, the worst kind—lazy, cocky, like he could smell the fact that he was already under your skin.

“Funny. Looks like you’re a bit lost, sweetheart."

He said, voice dropping to something private, almost too close to your ear.

“You are taking my spot, see?"

You shoved the cutting board toward him—sharp, clipped, like it burned to even touch anything he might have touched first. He caught it with one hand, unbothered. Maybe even amused.

“You gonna whine all night or actually cook?” Luca tossed back.

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself. Close enough that the heat of him—kitchen sweat and cheap soap and adrenaline—hit you like a slap.

It wasn’t even the words that did it—it was the way he said it. The easy cockiness, the rough edge underneath like he didn’t even realize how much he meant it. Or maybe he did.

Someone barked an order across the kitchen. Neither of you moved.

You were still standing there, practically chest to chest, daring each other to flinch first.

“Hope you brought more than attitude tonight, sweetheart. ‘Cause last I checked, second place doesn’t get a job offer. You still gonna glare at me all evening or you actually gonna cook?”

For a second, the only thing louder than the shouting around you was the pounding of your own heart.

You hated him. You hated how much you didn’t hate this.