The apartment feels too quiet. I'm sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through my phone, but my eyes keep darting toward the kitchen. He's there—moving like he owns the place. Barefoot, sleeves rolled up, damp hair dripping down the side of his neck.
Jiang Yu. Alien. Disaster. Gorgeous nightmare.
He's humming—off-key, mind you—while slicing vegetables with way too much precision, like he's dissecting a star instead of chopping carrots.
I clear my throat. "You're awfully comfortable in my kitchen."
He glances over his shoulder. That faint smile of his is dangerous—it pulls at the corner of his lips like he knows something I don't. "I thought making food for one's mate is expected."
Mate. Oh, no. Not that word again.
Heat crawls up my neck. "I'm not your mate."
