“We’ve both wanted a ho… why not build one together?”
Clarissa froze, too stunned to respond. And in that split second of hesitation, Atticus’s fingertips skimd over her cheek with reverence, as if morizing the feel of her. His gaze deepened, burning with want—but he didn’t move to kiss her.
Because Clarissa wasn’t the kind of woman you could conquer in a single night. He knew that. Clarissa had to be slowly consud, seduced step by step until she didn’t even realize she’d fallen.
But even so, when Clarissa ca back to her senses, she shoved him away with force.
Her heart pounded wildly, her face flushed a deep, helpless red. Whether it was from anger or sothing far more dangerous, she wasn’t sure.
She took a sharp breath, willing herself to stay calm, though her voice trembled.
“This is insane! You’re absolutely hopeless! Atticus, I will never love you like that. Just give up already!”
Atticus didn’t flinch. His gaze stayed locked on hers—dark, bottomless, unreadable.
Clarissa suddenly felt overwheld by the intensity of it. She stepped back instinctively, needing space.
But then—his expression shifted. His eyes softened, as if touched by starlight and dreams. That sa magnetic pull now glowed with warmth, sorrow, and longing.
This cruel, lonely world had given him nothing… nothing except her.
“You don’t have to love now,” he said slowly. “Clarissa… I love you.”
Her heart gave a painful lurch. Like sothing had clamped down on it, tight and aching. A strange, electric sensation flooded her chest—too complex, too raw, too real.
She turned her face away, unable to et his gaze. Her lips quivered as she spoke. “I… that’s exactly I can’t love you back!”
A flash of sothing dark flickered in Atticus’s eyes—possessive—but it vanished beneath his usual calm smile.
“That’s okay,” he said gently. “I’ll wait. I don’t care how long it takes. As long as you care about a little more than yesterday… I’ll be happy.”
“I can walk 99.9 steps toward you, Clarissa. And if you can’t walk the last 0.1, that’s fine too. I’ll close the distance… I’ll carry you if I have to.”
Clarissa stared at him in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re insane…”
His response was a smile—soft and patient.
“Put on your clothes and leave!” she snapped, finally cracking. “If you ever pull sothing like this again—next ti, you can die in the street for all I care!”
Without giving him another look, she snatched the clothes off the floor and threw them at him, then turned and stord into her bedroom, slamming and locking the door behind her.
Atticus remained still, a slow smile curling on his lips as he stared at the closed door.
Clarissa… you still say one thing and an another.
You could’ve left to pass out in the rain last night, but you didn’t.
Now that you’ve let in… I won’t be leaving so easily.
His gaze shifted to the front door’s new digital lock. His eyes narrowed with interest.
Inside her room, Clarissa pressed her ear to the door.
There were loud, clanking sounds from the hallway. Her nerves were stretched tight.
After what felt like an eternity, she finally heard the front door creak open, then close again.
Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
She opened the bedroom door cautiously. Her stomach growled—she hadn’t eaten much since the night before, and now the hunger gnawed at her.
She shuffled into the kitchen.
The fridge was barren. Don't want to order takeout, she opened the cabinet and dug around, hoping to find at least so instant noodles.
But ever since Atticus had taken over the cooking, their pantry had beco a shrine to actual ingredients. Instant noodles were nearly extinct in this house.
Atticus had taught himself how to cook years ago—Chinese, Japanese, French, whatever she wanted. And he got good. Really good. Better than Clentine.
And now, all that was left in the back of the cabinet was a lonely, dust-covered cup of expired instant noodles.
Clarissa stared at the date. Three months past.
She was debating whether it was still edible when the sound of the front door unlocking made her freeze.
Beep.
Her blood ran cold. She bolted from the kitchen just in ti to see Atticus swaggering back in with a basket of fresh vegetables.
“Atticus!” she shouted, voice sharp. “Who the hell told you to add your fingerprint to my door?!”
It all clicked—the loud noises earlier, the tallic banging. He hadn’t left. He’d stayed behind to change the lock system and register himself.
This lunatic had hacked his way into her ho like it was no big deal.
Atticus ignored Clarissa’s fury, walked straight up to her, and smiled softly.
“I bought all your favorite ingredients,” he said gently. “I’ll cook now.”
He made his way toward the kitchen, but stopped halfway when he noticed the expired instant noodles in her hand. With a quiet chuckle, he plucked them from her fingers, turned, and tossed them effortlessly into the trash.
“Shouldn’t be eating this crap,” he said, brushing imaginary dust off his hands. “Let take care of you.”
“You—!” Clarissa stepped forward and shoved him hard in the chest. “I didn’t ask you to cook anything! And I asked you—who gave you permission to add your fingerprint to my door?!”
Atticus didn’t fight back. He just looked at her with eyes full of quiet, wounded longing. “I just wanted to cook for you, that’s all. Is that really so wrong?”
“No. I an, yes! Just—get out. I’m not hungry anyway!” Clarissa snapped.
But before her voice even fully faded, her stomach betrayed her with a loud and unmistakable growl.
Her body stiffened. Her face went rigid with embarrassnt. “I… I’m not…”
Atticus burst out laughing, the sound rich. “Looks like your body disagrees with your mouth.”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into sothing more intimate. “Don’t worry. Dinner’s coming right up.”
Without waiting for another protest, he brushed past her and slipped into the kitchen.
Clarissa stood frozen. She’d let him back in—again. And now she didn’t know how to make him leave.
At least he hadn’t tried to touch her again. If he had, she would’ve kicked him out on the spot.
Grumbling, Clarissa flopped onto the sofa, opened her laptop, and sent off the finished docunt to Wesley. But she couldn’t concentrate—because a mont later, Atticus erged from the kitchen wearing an apron and holding a plate of freshly cut fruit.
“Here,” he said gently, setting the plate in front of her. “Eat a little while I cook. You’ll feel better.”
She ignored him, fingers flying over the keyboard, eyes fixed on the screen.
Atticus stood for a mont, a flicker of hurt flashing through his expression. But he said nothing and quietly returned to the kitchen.
Soon, the rich, savory scent of cooking began to drift through the apartnt. Clarissa’s stomach twisted with hunger, her mouth watering before she could stop it.
She glanced at the fruit. Just a few pieces wouldn’t hurt.
She picked up a slice and popped it into her mouth. Then another.
When Atticus returned carrying a tray of steaming dishes, he saw her sitting in front of the TV. She didn’t look at him, but the fruit plate was nearly empty.
He smiled, pleased, and began setting the dishes on the table with practiced grace. “Dinner’s ready.”
Clarissa hesitated, her eyes drifting toward the table. All her favorite dishes—exactly how she liked them. Every detail perfect.
She’d already eaten the fruit. She might as well finish the al… and kick him out afterward.
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