Warm

Warm
~ Camilla

I wasn’t prepared for breakfast.

Not physically, not mentally, not spiritually, nothing in me was built for the shock of waking up to the smell of eggs and butter and actual coffee drifting through the penthouse like we lived in some domestic alternate universe where Stephano Maddens cooked. The Stephano I knew ordered breakfast like royalty: one text, no thanks, no acknowledgement, no eating alongside me. The idea of him cracking eggs with his own hands didn’t even exist in the same galaxy as reality.

But there he was. Standing at the stove. Fork in one hand. Spatula in the other. Barefoot, shirtless, hair slightly messy in a way that shouldn't have made my heart wobble, but unfortunately did.

And, the most absurd part, he was humming. Humming. I actually thought I was hallucinating. Maybe trauma came with auditory side effects.

I slid into a chair, still half convinced this was some luxurious fever dream. He set a plate in front of me, then one for himself, and without asking, without hesitation, he sat right beside me. Not across. Not at the head of the table. Right beside me, thigh warm against mine, arm looping around my waist like it belonged there.

Who was this man? Seriously. Who. Was. This. Man.

His fingers traced lazy circles on my hip while he buttered toast with the other hand, and my brain short-circuited so violently I actually forgot how to swallow my first sip of coffee. No conversation. Just… domestic silence. His warmth pressed to my side, his hand proprietary and calm, his presence unusually gentle.

And my thoughts? Oh hell, my thoughts. My thoughts were not gentle. They were not calm.

They were sprinting around inside my skull with knives. What is he doing? Why is he being like this? Is this some sort of emotional manipulation tactic? Is he trying to butter me up for the second attempt at the court wedding? Is this what rich men do when they’re preparing to sign your soul over in exchange for lifetime ownership?

He handed me a piece of toast, gently touching my wrist to get my attention, and I nearly dropped it because my body reacted before my brain could slap sense into me.

It felt… nice. Too nice. Dangerously nice.

And that terrified me, because I had already resigned myself to the wedding. I had accepted my fate. I had told myself, repeatedly, that this was happening whether I wanted it or not, and the best thing to do was to stay numb.

But this? This acting sweet? This cooking breakfast? This sitting next to me like a man who liked me , like a man who wanted me voluntarily, this was emotional sabotage.

I shoved a forkful of eggs into my mouth just to distract myself from spiraling. It didn’t work. My heart kept slamming against my ribs like it was trying to file a complaint. His hand squeezed my waist lightly, and I swear I forgot my own name.

“Eat,” he murmured, low and warm. “You need it.”

Just that. That very mundane sentence, and my brain exploded. Because the Stephano I knew would’ve said something like: “You’re iron-deficient. Fix it.” Or: “You’re pregnant, you have no choice, eat.”

Not this soft… thing. I forced down another bite, but the words I’d been swallowing for the past ten minutes finally scrambled up my throat with such desperation I couldn't contain them anymore.

I set my fork down. Down and hard. He glanced at me, brows lifting slightly, as if he sensed my internal meltdown. Good. He should sense it. I was about to combust. The words burst out of me mid-breath.

“You don’t have to be nice to me.”

He froze. Actually froze. Like I’d slapped him with a pancake. My heart galloped forward, and once the dam cracked, everything rushed out in one humiliating tidal wave.

“I…I know the court wedding has to happen soon. And I get it, okay? I understand you’re trying to be considerate because I just got rescued from the kidnapping and all. But you don’t have to. Really. It’s fine. I’ll marry you. You don’t need to do all this.”

His eyes narrowed. His hand stilled on my waist.

“Do all what?” he asked quietly.

I gestured vaguely at the table, the food, his proximity, his bare chest, literally everything, like some deranged mime having a breakdown.

“This!” I blurted. “All this kindness. The cooking. The soft kissing. The sleeping-with-your-arms-around-me-like-we’re-in-a-romance-novel thing! You’re being… confusing.”

He blinked once. Twice.

“Confusing,” he echoed.

“Yes!” My voice cracked for absolutely no reason. “I don’t know what you’re doing, but you don’t have to perform niceness just because we have to follow through with the marriage. I agreed to marry you. You can stop pretending now.”

He stared at me for a long, slow second. Then he let out a breath and said, very simply,

“I canceled the court wedding.”

The silence hit like a truck.

My brain: …processing, please wait…

“What?” I croaked.

He set his fork down and turned fully toward me. His arm slipped from my waist, but his knee stayed pressed to mine, grounding me even as my entire soul attempted to leave my body.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed a long, annoyed sigh, but at himself, not me.

“You don’t have to marry me if you don’t want to,” he said, voice low, steady. “It’s up to you now.”

My brain did not reboot.

“I…what…wait, what do you mean?”

“If you choose to marry me, we’ll wed when we both choose,” he continued, eyes fixed on mine with an intensity that made my spine tingle. “If you don’t… then you don’t. I’ll respect it.”

Respect. He said respect. Stephano Maddens. Said. Respect.

He kept going, words spilling out of him in this strangely uneven, almost rambling flow.

“And I’m sorry. For everything. The things I said. The things I did. The way I acted. Back in high school… I was a dick. I know that. An actual dick. And now, well, I’m probably an even bigger dick.”

I blinked at him. He continued.

“I hurt you. Repeatedly. I know that. And honestly…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Honestly, it wouldn’t surprise me if you walked away. I’ve been nothing but cold and controlling and…just…wrong with you.”

The man was rambling. Stephano. Was rambling. This had to be a prank. A social experiment. Hidden cameras. Something. He looked at me again, jaw tight, eyes almost… nervous.

“What I’m trying to say is…” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “Camilla, I’m sorry.”

The world tilted. My heart launched itself into my throat, my lungs forgot how to inflate, and every carefully constructed emotional barrier I had built after years of humiliation, tension, lust, and power imbalance began to crack like glass struck by a hammer.

And my mind? My mind absolutely flipped. What the hell is happening? Why is he apologizing? Why is he using full sentences? Why is he letting me choose anything? Why does he look like he’s bracing for a punch? And why does my stupid chest feel warm? Oh God. No. No no no no. Don’t get sucked in. Don’t be weak. Remember the storage locker. Remember Isabella’s smirk. Remember him on that desk. Remember everything. Stop feeling things, you idiot.

My hands trembled on my lap. I wasn’t breathing. I wasn’t blinking. I wasn’t functioning like a normal human being.

This man, this infuriating, cold, possessive, impossible man, had just turned into someone with a heartbeat and regret and the capacity to cook eggs.

Dear lord, I had absolutely no idea what to do with that.