Kitchen Encounters.

Winter’s POV

Sleep refuses to come.

I turn onto my side for what feels like the hundredth time, dragging the sheets with me as if that will somehow make a difference. The room is too quiet. Too still. Every sound feels amplified—the faint rustle of fabric, the slow ticking of time, the soft rhythm of my own breathing.

And underneath all of it—

Him.

The feeling sits low in my chest, subtle but persistent, like something quietly pulling at me from the inside. It has been there for hours now, ever since he walked out of this room with Derrick. I tried to ignore it at first. Told myself it was just my mind replaying everything that happened.

But this isn’t just memory.

It’s something else.

Something deeper.

I press my eyes shut, exhaling slowly as I try to push it away, but it only seems to grow stronger in the silence. A restless energy settles under my skin, making it impossible to stay still.

This is ridiculous.

I sit up abruptly, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The cool floor against my feet sends a slight shiver up my spine, grounding me just enough to think clearly.

Water.

That’s all I need.

Something simple.

Something normal.

I push myself to stand and make my way toward the door, not allowing myself time to think too much about why my chest feels tight or why my pulse has started to pick up again.

The hallway is quiet when I step out.

Dimly lit, empty, the palace long since fallen into sleep. My footsteps are soft against the floor as I move, arms folded loosely around myself, the thin fabric of my nightwear doing little to keep out the cool night air drifting in through the open windows.

I walk quickly, like if I move fast enough I won’t have to think.

Won’t have to feel.

But the further I go, the stronger it gets.

That pull.

Low. Insistent.

Familiar.

My steps slow.

Just slightly.

My brows knit together as I glance down the corridor ahead, my chest tightening without reason.

No.

Not without reason.

I know exactly what this is.

I just don’t want to admit it.

By the time I reach the kitchen, my pulse has already started to betray me.

The door is slightly open.

A faint light spills out into the hallway.

I stop.

For a second, I just stand there, staring at it.

Then I push it open.

And everything inside me stills.

He’s there.

Keon stands by the counter, one hand braced against the surface, the other holding a glass loosely at his side. The low light casts shadows across his face, sharpening the angles of his features, but it does nothing to soften the intensity of his gaze when it lifts and lands directly on me.

Like he knew I would come.

My breath catches.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy, wrapping around us like something alive.

I swallow.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

His voice is low. Controlled.

Like nothing happened earlier.

Like he didn’t stand outside my door and look at me like—

I push the thought away.

“No,” I reply, stepping further into the room. “You?”

His gaze doesn’t leave me.

“No.”

Of course not.

I move toward the counter, forcing my steps to remain steady even as I become painfully aware of how close he is. Every inch of space between us feels charged, like the air itself has changed.

I reach for a glass.

My fingers brush against the edge of it, and I realize too late that my hand isn’t as steady as I thought.

I ignore it.

Turn on the tap.

The sound of running water fills the silence between us, too loud, too sharp, but still not enough to drown out the awareness crawling under my skin.

He’s watching me.

I can feel it.

Every second.

Every movement.

I turn off the tap and lift the glass, taking a sip just to give myself something to do.

Something to focus on.

“You seemed…” his voice cuts through the quiet, measured and deliberate, “occupied earlier.”

The glass pauses halfway to my lips.

There it is.

I set it down slowly.

“You didn’t have to interrupt,” I say, keeping my tone even.

A beat of silence.

Then,

“Would you have stopped?”

The question lands harder than I expect.

My chest tightens.

I turn to face him fully now, my brows drawing together slightly.

“Why does it matter to you?”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

He just watches me.

That same intense, unwavering gaze.

“You know why,” he says finally.

Something in my chest shifts.

I shake my head slightly, more to ground myself than anything else.

“No,” I reply. “I don’t.”

A lie.

We both know it.

The space between us feels smaller now.

Or maybe he’s closer.

I didn’t see him move.

Did he move?

My breath hitches slightly as I become aware of just how near he is.

Too near.

“You let him touch you,” Keon says.

The words are quiet.

Controlled.

But they hit like something much heavier.

My jaw tightens.

“I didn’t realize I needed permission.”

The air changes.

Sharpens.

For a second, I think he might snap.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he exhales slowly, his gaze dropping briefly before lifting back to mine.

“You don’t,” he says.

Then, after a beat,

“But don’t pretend it doesn’t affect me.”

That stops me.

Because this...

This isn’t Alpha authority.

This isn’t command.

This is something else.

Something personal.

My pulse quickens.

“Why?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

He doesn’t answer.

Not with words.

Instead, he steps closer.

And this time, I feel it.

The shift.

The pull.

The bond tightening between us like a string drawn too taut.

My back brushes against the counter.

I don’t remember stepping back.

His hand comes up, slow, deliberate, until his fingers rest lightly under my chin.

He tilts my head just enough to make me look at him fully.

My breath catches.

His touch is warm.

Steady.

But there’s tension beneath it. Control. Strain.

Like he’s holding something back.

“Then stop looking at me like that,” he says, his voice lower now.

My brows knit slightly.

“Like what?”

His gaze drops to my lips.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough.

Everything in me stills.

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t need to.

The silence says enough.

His hand shifts slightly, his thumb brushing just barely along my jaw as he steps closer.

There’s no space between us now.

None.

I can feel the heat of him.

Hear the slight change in his breathing.

My own pulse is too loud in my ears.

Too fast.

“If you don’t want this…” his voice is rougher now, barely controlled, “move.”

I don’t.

I don’t even think about it.

I just...

Don’t.

And that’s all it takes.

His control snaps.

Not violently.

Not suddenly.

But enough.

His hand tightens just slightly as he pulls me closer, the movement firm, decisive,

And the distance between us disappears.