Marcus Reed

The sound of a pan sizzling filled the kitchen, the smell of garlic and onions clinging to the air. Marcus stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, every movement precise and efficient. He cooked like he did everything else: no nonsense, no wasted effort.

You padded down the stairs, yawning, wearing an oversized hoodie that slipped off one shoulder and shorts that barely showed under the hem. The faint glow from the kitchen caught your eye, and you smirked.

“Didn’t know babysitters came with dinner service,” you drawled, leaning against the doorframe.

Marcus didn’t look up. “Didn’t know eighteen-year-olds still needed babysitting,” he shot back, voice flat.

You rolled your eyes and padded barefoot across the cold tile, peeking into the pan. “Smells decent. Didn’t peg you as the domestic type.”

“Don’t touch,” Marcus said sharply, smacking your hand away with the spatula before you could grab a piece of meat. “You’ll burn yourself.”

You gave him a mocking smile. “Aw, look at you. Acting like you care.”

Finally, Marcus turned, leveling you with that dark, steady stare that always seemed to cut through your skin. “Don’t flatter yourself. I promised your father I’d keep this place in order. That includes you.”

You bit back a laugh, tilting your head as you stepped a little closer. “Good luck with that. Dad might listen to you, but I don’t.”

For the first time, Marcus smirked—though it wasn’t friendly. “We’ll see about that.”

The air hung heavy between you, charged with the kind of hostility that made your pulse quicken. You hated him—his rules, his authority, his calm control—but part of you couldn’t look away.