Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 109: Princess Treatment: Breakfast Edition [II]

Adrien’s eyes gleamed with amusement and something else entirely as he leaned forward.

He was far too close to me now - I could smell the clean scent of his cologne mixed with the richer notes of my kitchen.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "I’m not sure that’s a good idea," I managed to say, trying to keep my voice steady.

His smile only grew at that. "Oh? And why’s that, princess?"

Because you’re going to kiss me, I thought, but didn’t say out loud. Because then I’m going to let you, and we’ll both forget this is still the morning.

He tilted his head, waiting for an answer. His gaze was intent now, studying my face.

I bit my lip, looking for any distraction. My eyes landed on his apron. "Because... you’re wearing my apron," I pointed out, grasping at straws.

As if summoned, Ivy trotted over and plopped down heavily at Adrien’s feet, looking up at him with big eyes. He reached down to scratch behind her ears without missing a beat.

"Your brother said it was tradition," he said simply.

I stared at him. "You’re taking fashion advice from Leo?"

He shrugged one shoulder, unrepentant. "When in Rome," he quipped, his fingers still absently scratching Ivy.

I sighed dramatically. "You’re impossible. You know that, right?"

"So I’ve been told," he agreed easily. His hand paused on Ivy’s fur and he looked at me through his lashes. "But I think you secretly love it."

I rolled my eyes. "You’re so full of yourself."

"And you’re so predictable," he shot back with a grin.

I laughed despite myself. Shaking my head, I reached for my glass of juice. "I don’t know what I did to deserve you," I said, but I couldn’t quite keep the fondness out of my voice.

His smile was slow. Satisfied. "You must have done something very, very good," he said, then leaned over and pressed a light kiss to the top of my head. "You’re adorable."

I felt my cheeks heat at that. Setting my glass down, I cleared my throat. "Well. Since you cooked, I suppose I should clean up."

He tsked softly. "Ah ah ah. No you don’t. Doctor’s orders - you’re to stay off that ankle as much as possible." He stood, moving over to the sink and starting to wash the dishes with easy efficiency.

"I’m perfectly capable of-"

He cut me off with a look. "You’re going to drive yourself crazy underestimating me, princess. Let me take care of you for once, would you?"

I opened my mouth, but one glance from him had me grumbling in defeat. He was right, and we both knew it.

...Don’t tell him I said that.

So I sat there like a good girl, watching him clean up the kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times before. He moved with quick, competent motions, his movements easy and confident. It was oddly domestic, watching my boyfriend do dishes in my kitchen.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, catching me staring. One eyebrow went up. "See something you like, princess?" he asked, his tone playful.

I felt my cheeks heat again, but I met his gaze unflinchingly. "Just admiring the view," I said, my voice deliberately light.

His eyes glinted at that. "Careful, love. Keep saying things like that and I might let myself get a big head."

"Too late," I quipped back, unable to stop my smile.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich in the quiet of the kitchen. He turned back to the dishes, but I could see the line of his shoulders relaxing, his posture a little easier.

When he finally returned, he came over, wiping his hands on the towel and offered me a small dish from the side tray.

Strawberries. Already sliced. A drizzle of honey. A curl of dark chocolate shaved over the top like he’d learned it from a Michelin chef.

He set it on my lap.

I gave him a look. "You bribing me again?"

"Bribing would require protest," he said, voice low. "And you’re already leaning into me."

I rolled my eyes.

He reached out, slowly, and picked up one of the strawberries. Held it just a little above my lips.

My breath hitched. But I opened my mouth anyway.

He fed it to me like it was something sacred.

And when my lips closed around the fruit, his gaze didn’t move.

Neither did mine.

The bite melted on my tongue, sweet and sharp. His fingers brushed my cheek on the way down.

He leaned down—lips brushing close to my ear as he said:

"So. Back to the dessert option."

I froze. Just for a second.

His voice had dipped low. Lower than necessary for kitchen flirting. His tone carried a soft promise... and something unspoken beneath it.

"I—uh—" I looked around the kitchen like it might offer an escape route. "You can’t say stuff like that in my dad’s house."

"Why not?" he asked, all innocence, except his tone dipped too low to be safe. "Your dad left."

"He did, but—" I sat up straighter. "There are walls. And windows. And a whole floor where he sleeps sometimes. It’s his house, Adrien."

"And?"

I gaped at him. "And?!"

"Ivy doesn’t seem worried," he said mildly, nodding toward the dog now snoozing under the table.

"She’s a dog," I hissed.

"And you’re blushing."

"I am not."

"You are." He paused "And it’s adorable."

I dropped my gaze to the strawberries perched delicately on my lap, cheeks burning more than I cared to admit.

I could practically feel the smirk when he said:

"You know, if you’re this flustered in a kitchen, I wonder what you’ll be like in your room."

I made a strangled sound — somewhere between a protest and a prayer.

"Adrien—"

"You’ll tell me to stop if you mean it," he murmured, softer now. "But you don’t. Do you?"

Whether it was the promise in his voice or the heat in his gaze, I couldn’t tell. But something in me responded like a key turning in a lock.

I swallowed hard, trying to find my voice. "You... you can’t just say things like that," I managed, hoping my voice sounded steadier than I felt.

His eyes glinted. "Can’t I?"

I set the plate down with a small clatter, my hands suddenly restless. "No, you can’t. It’s... it’s not..."

Dangerous, I thought, but didn’t say.

"Fair," I finished lamely. Because if you keep talking like that, I won’t want you to stop.

"To who?" He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Because from where I’m standing, it seems pretty damn fair to me."

My breath hitched. I could smell him now.

"Adrien," I warned, cheeks warming. "We’re in my father’s house."

"I know," he said smoothly, eyes glinting. "Which is why I’m showing restraint. So far."

He reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"But your ankle’s not the only thing that deserves attention this morning."

My fingers fisted in the edge of his apron before I could stop them.

Adrien must’ve seen something shift in my eyes, because he moved first — hand rising to cradle the back of my head, the other brushing lightly over my waist as he leaned down and kissed me.

The kiss wasn’t frantic. It was slow. Intentional. Like he had all the time in the world to remind me exactly who he was — and exactly what he wanted from me.

I gasped when his hands found the backs of my thighs and lifted me, easy and sure, as if I weighed nothing at all.

"You’re injured," he murmured against my collarbone, lips brushing my skin like a whisper.

"You’re ignoring that."

"I’m prioritizing," he said.

I buried my face in his collar, mortified and melting in equal measure. "You’re carrying me through the hallway."

"Mm-hmm."

"To my bedroom."

"That’s the plan."

"In my father’s house."

He paused just outside my door, his smile brushing my ear. "Then you’d better stay quiet, buttercup."

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