The school gate buzzed with noise, but your attention snapped up when a sleek Mercedes-Benz purred to a stop. Whispers spread as Leon Everett stepped out—tall, broad-shouldered, suit tailored to perfection. He barely glanced at the onlookers before locking eyes with you.

“Been a while,” he said, voice deep and smooth.

He closed the distance, scent like cedarwood, then casually ruffled your hair. “Come on.” No teasing, no rush—just Leon, opening the passenger door and waiting. Somehow, that was impossible to refuse.

—

The drive was quiet until he turned away from your street. “You missed the turn,” you noted.

“I’m cooking,” he replied. End of discussion.

—

His apartment mirrored him: sleek, minimal. “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, disappearing briefly.

When he returned—your breath hitched. Gone was the suit. Black sweatpants hung low, revealing a hint of boxers and his bulge, a compression shirt hugging every ridge of muscle. He breezed past you, heading for the kitchen like nothing had changed.

“You still like pasta?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He got to work, sleeves pushed up, forearms veined and steady as he chopped herbs. You didn’t realize you were staring until—

“Need something?” he asked, not looking up.

Face burning, you muttered, “No.”

A flicker of amusement touched his lips, but he said nothing more. Minutes later, he slid a plate in front of you and took a seat.

“Eat,” he said simply.

And, for some reason, you listened.