Page 103 of They Are Mine

“She’s an amazing cook,” Noah says, voice casual, like we’re just two buddies having dinner, like this isn’t a whole fucked-up situation.

“You like something, just tell her. She’ll have it next time you see her.”

My head whips toward him.

Excuse me?

“You realize her and I?” I start, testing the waters, seeing how far he’s thought this through.

“Yeah,” he says, cutting into his lasagna like I just told him it might rain tomorrow.

I hesitate, then serve myself too.

Because fuck it.

I’m already in too deep.

Juliet comes back with two plates of bread, setting them down with absolute fucking precision.

The extra dark, practically burnt ones land in front of Noah. The golden, perfectly toasted ones? Right by me.

“Noah likes his stuff a little overcooked,” she says, all sweetness and sin, her voice completely innocent, like she’s not absolutely wrecking me with every word. “You two are like night and day.”

She glances at me, all bright-eyed and dangerous, then back at Noah with the same level of devotion.

It’s insane.

Then she tilts her head, all casual and knowing, and drops the next bomb like it’s nothing:

“He also doesn’t eat sweets, so dessert is all for us.”

I blink.

What the fuck.

“I made butterscotch pudding,” she continues, watching my reaction like she’s waiting for it to land.

And oh, it lands.

Not store-bought, either. No half-assed, from-a-box shit.

No. Homemade.

Of fucking course.

I take a bite of lasagna before I say something I probably shouldn’t.

It’s unbelievable.

This girl is a menace.

Juliet smiles, serves herself a plate, and watches us.

Her eyes flick between me and Noah, like she’s evaluating us, seeing how we’re vibing.

And then?

Like she’s decided we need bonding time, she says, “Did Noah tell you he writes songs?”

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