Chapter 5

Moving Timothy Cullen into my apartment was a mistake I regretted almost immediately.

After purchasing two pairs of oversized grey sweatpants and a baseline hoodie from a nearby department store, we officially set up base camp in my sanctuary.

Or at least, what used to be my sanctuary before my own face was sprawled across my silk couch, aggressively devouring a bag of sour cream potato chips. “You’re getting salt and grease on the...,” I rumbled in Tim’s deep voice, leaning against the kitchen counter with my arms crossed over his massive chest.

“It’s ours now, Kingston,” Tim retorted through a mouthful of chips. My voice sounded ridiculously light coming out of him, especially accompanied by a lazy wave of his hand. “Besides, you’re currently using my body to drink loose-leaf chamomile tea out of a delicate porcelain mug. You look like a giant grizzly bear attending a Victorian tea party.”

I glanced down at my giant hands holding the fragile handle. He wasn't entirely wrong.

By day two of our weeklong mandatory leave, an unexpected routine emerged. Since we couldn't risk going out alone and bumping into people who knew us—or worse, our gossipy coworkers—we were essentially glued to each other.

Our phones became non-stop battlegrounds of rapid-fire text messages, even when sitting in the same room.

Stella (in Tim’s body): Stop sitting on my throw pillows like they’re beanbags.

Tim (in Stella’s body): Stop using my chin to test your night cream. It stings.

Stella: That’s hyaluronic acid! You have visible pores that need immediate intervention!

Yet, despite the petty squabbling, a strange truce began to form. We were forced to venture outside unless we wanted to suffer from severe cabin fever, which led to what Tim proudly dubbed our mandatory "Tolerance Dates."

The first outing was a disaster-in-progress tour of the local park. I had to walk five paces behind Tim because he kept forgetting that my legs were significantly shorter, causing him to stride ahead while I stumbled along trying to adjust to his wide, heavy steps.

Meanwhile, Tim kept attempting to flex my non-existent biceps whenever a cute dog passed by, only to remember he was currently a five-foot-five woman in a soft pastel cardigan.

“Stop puffing your chest out!” I hissed under my breath as we passed a crowded outdoor cafe. “You look like an agitated pigeon!”

“I’m building confidence for your terrible posture!” Tim shot back, nearly tripping over an exposed tree root. I reached out and caught his upper arm—my upper arm—with my giant hand to steady him before he hit the dirt.

Our second date was at a dimly lit arcade down by the pier, where the chaos reached a glorious peak.Tim insisted on playing a claw machine, using my delicate fingers to furiously slam the joystick around.

When he lost for the sixth consecutive time, my voice let out a screech so high and fierce that the teenager running the prize booth flinched. “Move over, amateur,” I grunted, gently shoving him aside.

Using Tim’s freakishly tall frame and superior angle view, I aligned the claw with calculated precision and dropped it directly over a stuffed plush frog. The metallic claw clamped down securely, lifting the toy and dumping it into the retrieval chute.

I grabbed the plush frog and slapped it against Tim’s chest. “There. Stop embarrassing my vocal cords in public.”

Tim blinked down at the green frog, then looked up at me with my own eyes. A wide, dazzling smile spread across my face—a smile I had never once seen in a mirror because I was always too busy scowling at spreadsheets.

“You’re actually pretty cool when you're not threatening people,” he murmured softly in my voice, clutching the plush frog to his chest.

My heart—or rather, Tim's—gave a hard ba-dump. I cleared my throat loudly to cover the sudden silence. “It’s simple physics, Cullen. Don’t make it weird.”

By day five, something truly terrifying was happening: I didn't completely despise him anymore. We spent the late afternoon at a quiet rooftop cafe overlooking the city skyline.

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the clouds in shades of amber and rose.

Tim was sipping a sweet iced tea through a straw, casually swinging my legs over the edge of his chair, while I leaned back in my seat, nursing a cold beverage with Tim’s signature relaxed slouch.

For the first time, my brain wasn't racing about client deadlines, statistics, or maintaining my flawless reputation.

“You know,” Tim spoke up, his tone unusually quiet as he watched the evening lights flicker on across the city. “This is the longest I’ve ever gone without dreading the start of a morning.”

“That’s because you usually spend your mornings avoiding work,” I replied, though the usual sharp bite in my voice was entirely gone.

Tim didn't fire back with a snarky insult. Instead, he let out a soft breath, swirling the ice in his glass. He looked down at my hands resting in his lap, his expression softening into something uncomfortably vulnerable.

“Stella,” Tim said gently, using my first name instead of 'Kingston' for the very first time. “Can I ask you something honest?”

I shifted in my chair, Tim’s broad shoulders stiffening slightly. “Go ahead. What is it?”

Tim looked up, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat.“Why do you guard yourself so fiercely... The Stella in the office and the one right here with me are two completely different people. Do you just hate me so much?”