The kiss had changed everything.
But it also changed nothing.
They still fought over silly things. Hazel still left socks on the kitchen counter for reasons that defied logic. Michael still labeled everything in the fridge like a military operation. But now, when their shoulders brushed in the hallway, there was a spark. Now, when they argued, it ended with someone being pressed against a wall—or a countertop.
Hazel was starting to see layers beneath Michael's perfectionist exterior, and it was messing with her in ways she didn't expect. Like tonight, for instance.
He'd brought her soup.
Not from a restaurant. He made it.
Chicken soup. From scratch.
With extra carrots because "you always pick them out but secretly finish them last, so they must be your favorite."
Hazel blinked down at the bowl, stunned. "Are you stalking my dinner patterns?"
"I'm married to them," Michael said, setting the tray beside her on the couch. "You said you had a headache. So I Googled soup recipes and canceled my meeting."
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "You canceled work… for me?"
"I'm allowed to do that," he said, a little stiffly.
"No, you're not," she teased. "You hate mess, and emotions, and soup. What have you done with the real Michael Graze?"
He sighed and sat down beside her. "I'm adapting. It's terrifying."
Hazel chuckled and picked up her spoon. "You're getting good at it."
They ate in comfortable silence for a while. The rain tapped gently on the windows, the room dimly lit by the warm glow of floor lamps. Hazel's head rested lightly on his shoulder.
"I used to think you hated me," she said softly.
Michael didn't look at her. "I did."
Hazel stiffened.
"At first," he added quickly. "You were… unpredictable. Messy. Loud."
She smirked. "Say more sweet things."
"But then you were funny. Kind. Weirdly good at Scrabble. And you filled the silence in ways I didn't know I needed."
Hazel turned to look at him. He was staring into the distance, jaw tight like he always did when saying something personal.
"I was scared," he admitted. "Still am."
"Of me?"
"Of you ruining everything I thought I knew. About control. About love."
Hazel's heart was no longer thudding—it was galloping. She put the soup aside, scooted closer, and cupped his jaw gently.
"Michael," she whispered, "you don't have to be perfect for me."
He looked at her then, eyes darker than usual. "I don't want to be perfect. I want to be yours."
Something inside her cracked wide open.
They kissed again—but this one was different. It wasn't fire this time. It was slow. Like falling asleep somewhere safe. Like choosing to stay.
His hand slid around her waist, pulling her into his lap. Her robe slipped slightly off her shoulder, but neither of them cared. The kiss deepened. Gentle. Consuming.
When they pulled apart, breathless and dazed, Michael whispered against her lips:
"I'm not scared of losing control anymore. Not with you."
Hazel grinned, nose brushing his. "Good. Because I never had any to begin with."...