Hazel had been in the penthouse for three days, and she'd already broken a soap dispenser, tripped over a minimalist chair she swore moved on its own, and accidentally opened Michael's fridge-organizing app on his tablet, causing him to lose his color-coded inventory of dairy.
But nothing compared to what happened on Wednesday morning.
It started innocently enough. Hazel, still groggy from binge-watching Korean dramas until 2 a.m., padded into the kitchen wearing fuzzy bunny slippers and one of Michael's old button-down shirts she found abandoned in a laundry basket. Oversized, comfortable. Completely unintentional.
She had one mission: coffee.
She managed to find the espresso machine—an intimidating chrome beast that looked like it could launch satellites. After fiddling with buttons, dials, and something that hissed steam at her, Hazel finally coaxed it into brewing a perfect cup. Success.
Until she turned around.
Michael stood there. Sharp black suit. No tie. Hair still damp from the shower. Watching her like she'd just committed treason in his temple of order.
Hazel froze mid-sip. "Morning."
His eyes traveled from her slippers to the shirt, lingering just a second too long. "That's mine."
"I figured. It was in the laundry. It looked lonely."
His expression didn't shift, but something flickered in his eyes—confusion? Disbelief?
"Rule number one—"
"Yeah, yeah, don't touch your stuff," she said quickly, holding up the mug as a peace offering. "But in my defense, I only touched it because I couldn't find mine. Also, this shirt? Way more comfortable than expected."
He walked past her wordlessly, opened the fridge, pulled out almond milk, then paused.
"What happened to the hazelnut creamer?"
Hazel blinked. "Oh… I may have used that. I thought it was regular creamer."
Michael slowly turned toward her. "That creamer was imported from Italy."
"I mean, it still worked. Tasted great!"
He looked at her like she'd drop-kicked a Picasso.
Hazel took another sip and gave him a smug smile. "It's just coffee, Michael. Not a stock investment."
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you even try to respect personal boundaries?"
She stepped closer, challenging. "Do you even try to act like a human being?"
For a second, silence crackled between them like static. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a butter knife—and Hazel had definitely seen one somewhere in the drawer marked "sharps only."
Then, without meaning to, she stepped on her own slipper, slipped, and launched the coffee straight at his chest.
The silence broke.
Michael stood there, now christened in steaming Italian espresso, expression unreadable.
Hazel gasped. "Oh no."
"Oh yes," he muttered, voice low and dangerous.
She grabbed a towel and began dabbing his shirt frantically. "I'm so, so sorry. It was an accident. My slipper just—"
"Don't."
"But—"
"Hazel," he growled, "stop touching me."
She froze. Looked up.
Their eyes locked.
And for the briefest second, she saw it—beneath all that coldness, the carefully pressed suits and tightly wound control—there was a man teetering on the edge of something.
Something he didn't want to feel...