Fated To Not Just One, But Three-Chapter 635: Spark

Olivia’s POV

He pulled back just an inch, his gaze dropping to mine, his thumb still stroking the underside of my wrist. His eyes were dark, searching, and for the first time in weeks, the distance between us felt like it might actually be bridgeable—or like it was about to swallow us both whole.

"Olivia," he murmured against my skin, his voice thick.

The air in the kitchen shifted, the physical pain of the burn drowned out by a sudden, electric tension that had been building for weeks. My breath hitched as Lennox looked up from my hand, his eyes dark with a hunger that mirrored my own.

He didn’t say another word. He stepped into my space, his large hands gripping my waist and hoisting me up onto the marble counter. I didn’t fight him; I pulled him closer, my legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. When his lips crashed against mine, it wasn’t soft or apologetic—it was a collision of all the words we hadn’t said, all the resentment, and all the desperate longing.

We kissed with a raw frustration, our tongues tangling as we tried to reclaim something we both feared was lost. My hands flew to his chest, my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, popping a few in my haste to feel his skin against mine. I needed to know he was still mine, even if the world felt like it was crumbling.

Lennox groaned into my mouth, his hands sliding under my top. With a practiced, frantic motion, he pushed my bra down, his eyes widening as he saw me. He didn’t hesitate, leaning down to take one hardened nipple into his mouth.

"God, Olivia," he growled against my skin. 𝗳𝚛𝚎𝚎𝘄𝕖𝕓𝕟𝕠𝚟𝚎𝕝.𝗰𝕠𝐦

I threw my head back, my fingers clawing at his shoulders. I moaned loudly, the sound echoing off the cold tiles, but I didn’t care. I didn’t care if the maids came back, or if they heard us. I had missed this—the heat, the claim, the feeling of being wanted by him so badly that nothing else mattered. He sucked harder, his hand gripping my thigh, and for a moment, the "break" didn’t exist.

Then, a sharp, acrid scent pierced through the haze of lust.

I stiffened, my nose wrinkling. "Lennox..."

"Ignore it," he muttered, his lips moving to my neck.

"No, Lennox—the cupcakes!"

The smell of char filled the air. I scrambled off the counter, nearly tripping over my own feet as I fumbled for the oven mitts I should have used in the first place. I yanked open the oven door, and a cloud of dark smoke billowed out.

The cupcakes were ruined. The edges were black, and the tops had cratered into charcoal discs.

I stared at the tray for a beat, my hair disheveled, my shirt half-open, and my heart still hammering against my ribs. Then, a bubble of hysterical laughter escaped my throat. I laughed in pure disbelief, leaning against the counter as the absurdity of the situation hit me. We were falling apart, then falling into bed, and now I couldn’t even manage a simple snack for my kids.

Lennox stood there, his shirt hanging open and his chest still heaving. He looked at the burnt tray, then at me, a slow, lopsided smirk forming on his face—the first real smile I’d seen in weeks.

"Well," he said, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear, his voice still husky. "It seems we have to prepare another batch. Together this time."

I pulled my shirt back together, my fingers trembling as I fixed my bra and adjusted my clothes. The heat of the moment was cooling rapidly, replaced by the stinging reminder of our reality. I looked at the charred remains of the cupcakes and then at him, my expression hardening into a frown.

"I don’t need your help, Lennox," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "I can handle a second batch on my own. You should go back upstairs. Aurora and the boys are waiting for you."

Lennox didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch at the mention of Aurora. Instead, he reached out and plucked the burnt tray from my hands, setting it in the sink with a loud clatter.

"Too bad," he said, his voice steady and infuriatingly calm. "I’m not leaving. You’re hurt, the kitchen is a mess, and clearly, you’re distracted. We’re doing this together."

"Lennox—"

"Get the flour, Olivia," he interrupted, already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes challenging me.

I wanted to keep arguing, to push him away and reclaim my solitude, but my body felt heavy and my heart felt even heavier. With a huff of frustration, I turned to the pantry.

The next hour passed in a strange, domestic blur. We moved around each other in the kitchen, a dance we had performed a thousand times before. He measured the sugar while I cracked the eggs. He whisked the batter when my burnt fingers throbbed, his hand occasionally brushing against mine.

I found myself watching him out of the corner of my eye. I watched the way he focused on the task, the way the light caught the sharp line of his jaw, and the way he looked—truly looked—at me when he thought I wasn’t noticing.

Despite the "break," despite the circle I felt excluded from, and despite the hurt that still lived in my chest, I felt that familiar, dangerous pull. I was falling in love with him all over again, right there over a bowl of vanilla batter.

I wondered, with a pang of hope that scared me, if we could ever really be one big family again. Could we bridge the gap? Could the circle open up wide enough to let me back in, or were we just playing house in the middle of a wreckage?

As we slid the new tray into the oven, Lennox leaned against the counter next to me. He didn’t touch me, but I could feel his warmth.

"They’re going to love these," he murmured, looking not at the oven, but at me. "Because you made them."