Alexander Voss did not invite people to his home.
Not colleagues.
Not acquaintances.
Not anyone who talked too much, laughed too loudly, or asked unnecessary questions.
Which made the fact that Cynthia Brooks was currently standing in his dining room—staring at a framed abstract painting like it had personally offended her—deeply unsettling.
"This looks like spilled coffee fighting for its life," she said thoughtfully.
Alexander, who was pouring water at the table, paused. "It's a limited-edition piece."
She nodded seriously. "Ah. So the coffee is expensive."
He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh.
Dinner sat between them: carefully prepared pasta, a simple salad, candles he definitely hadn't overthought, and silence that felt less intimidating than usual.
Cynthia sat down slowly, smoothing her dress.
"your house is neat. Quiet. Slightly intimidating," she added. "Like it might judge me if I spill something."
"It will," he said. "I will not."
She smiled. "Good. Because that means I only have to apologize to furniture."
They began eating.
For a few moments, neither spoke.
Alexander noticed everything he shouldn't have: the way she tasted the food carefully, the way her eyes lit up just a little, the way she tried to hide her approval.
"This is good," she said finally. "You cooked?"
"Yes."
She raised an eyebrow. "You? Personally?"
"I'm offended."
"I'm impressed," she corrected. "You give off 'lives on black coffee and control' energy."
He glanced at her plate. "You're eating."
"I'm brave."
She twirled her fork, then paused. "You know, when you invited me, I expected… something else."
His attention sharpened. "Such as?"
"Guards. Alarms. Maybe a secret room."
Something about the easy way she spoke—like she belonged there—unsettled him more than any secret ever had.
They continued eating, conversation flowing more naturally than either expected.
She told him about her disastrous attempt at learning to cook during college.
He told her, reluctantly, about burning soup once and never forgiving himself.
"You hold grudges against soup?"
"It knew what it did."
She laughed, openly now, and the sound filled the room in a way Alexander hadn't realized it was missing.
Then came dessert.
He placed two small plates on the table—chocolate cake, neatly sliced.
Her eyes widened. "You planned this."
"Don't exaggerate."
"You even plated it nicely."
"Stop talking and eat before I regret hospitality."
She obeyed—then froze mid-bite.
"Oh no."
He stiffened. "What?"
"This is… unfairly good.", cynthia said
"That's not a problem."
"It is when I might ask for seconds."
He watched her carefully. "I can live with that."
She smiled at him, softer now. "You're different tonight."
His fingers tightened slightly around his fork. "Different how?"
"Less… guarded." She tilted her head. "Still dangerous-looking."
The room felt quieter.
"You make observations," he said.
she replied cheerfully. "It's a gift."
They finished dessert slowly.
When she stood to help clear the table, he spoke instinctively. "You don't have to—"
"I want to," she said. "Besides, if I leave you alone with dishes, you'll probably negotiate with them instead of washing them."
He watched her move around his kitchen like she belonged there, humming softly, completely at ease.
It was dangerous.
They stood close at the sink—too close.
Their hands brushed.
Both froze.
For a second, neither moved.
Then she glanced up. "You're very still."
"So are you."
"I'm assessing whether this is awkward or… something else."
He stepped back slightly, clearing his throat. "Coffee?"
"Yes," she said immediately. "I want to see if it's as intimidating as you."
It was.
Strong. Precise. No sugar—until she added some herself, dramatically.
"There," she said. "Balance."
"You sabotage everything."
"I improve things."
They sat on opposite ends of the couch, pretending the space between them didn't feel charged.
"This was nice," she said quietly. "Thank you."
He nodded. "You're welcome."
She stood, grabbing her bag. "I should go before it rains"
He walked her to the door.
They stopped there—too close again.
"Cynthia," he said.
"Yes?"
"If I invite you again… will you come?"
Her smile was slow. Warm. Certain.
"Only if the coffee survives my sugar."
His lips curved, just slightly. "Deal."
She left.
Alexander closed the door and stood there longer than necessary.
For the first time in a long while, his house didn't feel empty.