Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 57: One Fire Out, One Brewing

ISABELLA’S POV

I was lying on a soft bed of flowers. The sun felt nice and warm, the breeze was light and for once, my mind wasn’t racing as if the universe had finally decided to give me a break. I took a deep breath and relaxed into this flowery dreamland.

The air was full of the sweet smell of lilies and roses, a nice mix that filled my lungs and helped ease any tension I had left in my body.

I didn’t just feel like I was lying on the flowers; I felt like I was becoming one with them, blending into their bright reds, yellows, and strange blues. There was nothing solid under me, just soft petals all around and—

Sniff. Sniff.

What... was that?

I frowned, still halfway between bliss and reality.

Sniff.

There it was again. Something spicy. And... smoky?

My nose twitched. The dream shattered and my eyes flew open.

This wasn’t a dream.

"Leo!!"

I shot up in bed, my hair all over the place.

"Leo?" I called, already fearing the worst.

"I got it under control!" he shouted from the kitchen.

Which knowing Leo, meant: Nothing is under control. Probably call the fire department.

I scrambled out of bed half tripping over my blanket, bare feet smacking the floor and rushed into the kitchen.

I reached the kitchen doorway and froze, one hand on the frame. The room looked like a battlefield. Leo was standing in the middle of a smoke cloud, flapping a towel wildly at the toaster. He was wearing my apron. The one that said "Kiss the Chef, or Else."

"why are you like this?" I muttered, grabbing the fire extinguisher—just in case.

He grinned, looking both sheepish and a bit proud. "Wanted to surprise you with breakfast. You looked dead last night. I figured food would cheer you up."

I glanced around the kitcben. The toaster had given up on life, there was a pan with something unidentifiable sizzling ominously and the counter looked like a disaster zone. Broken eggs, hot sauce and something that might’ve been toast.

"Please tell me that wasn’t an egg."

"It was," he said. "Then it... evolved."

"Into a carbonized fossil?"

Before he could reply, Dad appeared, squinting through the smoke, his robe half on and sagging. The smoke parted a bit for him as he stepped in.

"Is the house on fire, or is Leo just cooking again?"

"Just cooking!" Leo shouted like that made it better.

I sighed and lowered the fire extinguisher a bit. "Just cooking, Dad." I glared at Leo, who was now trying to wave away the smoke with his bare hands while coughing.

Dad shuffled into the doorway and came closer. "Hmm. Smells... experimental. Did you use the smoke detector as an ingredient again, Leo?"

Leo blushed and dropped the towel. "No! It just... got a little enthusiastic. The toast, I mean."

"A little enthusiastic?" I echoed, gesturing at the blackened shapes on the counter that barely looked like food. "Leo, those things look like they’re trying to unionize and demand reparations."

"Hey, I tried!" He defended himself, finally turning off the burner under the ’evolved’ egg. The sizzling stopped and was replaced by faint acrid smell.

Dad just shook his head, a tired smile playing on his lips. "I’m going back to bed. Wake me if we need to evacuate."

He turned and walked off, mumbling something about raising feral children.

Leo gave me a hopeful smile. "Okay! So, plan B? Cereal?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Leo, my hero. You single-handedly turned our kitchen into a biohazard zone, nearly gave Dad a heart attack, and probably ruined the toaster, all before SIX AM. And you think cereal is the appropriate follow-up?"

He shrugged, looking genuinely confused. "It’s fast? And I didn’t burn it last time."

"That’s because it comes pre-burned, Leo. It’s called char."

He finally seemed to deflate a little while looking around at the mess he’d created. The smoke was starting to clear as I opened the windows revealing the extent of his culinary chaos. Flour was smeared across the counter, a dark liquid was on the floor in a line, and instead of an egg, the pan contained a solid burned black disc.

"Okay, maybe it got a lot enthusiastic," he admitted, wiping a smudge of something dark from his cheek.

"So... you hungry?"

I glared at him.

"...I’ll order pancakes."

"Good plan."

****

Later that morning, I was back in the elevator that hated me. Alone this time. Thank God.

I exhaled slowly repeating my mantra: You’re fine. He apologized. You’re over it. You’re a professional. A grown woman

Ding.

The doors opened.

I stepped out and nearly dropped my tote bag.

Adrien freaking Walton was standing there. Right outside the elevator. On our floor. At 7:20 a.m.

I blinked. Was I dreaming again? Was this some stress-induced hallucination from the burnt toast fumes earlier?

He looked... calm. Suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, and holding two coffee cups like he did this every morning.

He held one out to me without saying a word.

I stared at it. Then at him. "Are you... okay?"

"No, I’m dying slowly. Take the coffee."

I didn’t move. "You’re early."

He raised a brow. "So are you."

He held out one of the cups again.

I stared at it. And then at him.

"You’re giving me coffee?"

"Do you want it or not?"

I blinked. "Is this coffee poisoned?"

"Only if you count oat milk as poison."

I took it from him cautiously, like it might explode in my hand. "Why does this feel like a trap?"

He looked at me like I was the unstable one. "It’s just coffee!"

Okay...This is unsettling.

I took a sip and it is vanilla oat latte. Exactly how I liked it.

I took another sip half-convinced it might be poisoned.

My eyes narrowed. "How did you know my order?"

He scoffed. "Please. You order it every morning like it’s a religious ritual. I pay attention." fгeewёbnoѵel_cσm

"You pay attention?" I repeated slowly, still holding the warm cup like it was a rare artifact. "To my coffee order?"

He took a sip of his own coffee, his gaze steady over the rim. "Some of us are capable of basic observation, Miller."

"Basic observation is noting someone wears the same worn-out cardigan three days in a row," I countered. "Knowing precisely that I get a vanilla oat latte? That’s... something else."

He lowered his cup. "It’s called pattern recognition. A crucial skill in our line of work, you know."

"Thank you... I guess."

He started to turn, and nodded briefly somehow managing to convey both acceptance of my awkward gratitude and a dismissal of the conversation.

Why is he being nice?

Is he being nice?

No. This is psychological warfare.

What if he’s buttering me up before firing me?

Or worse—what if this is his version of guilt?

Oh God. What if he smiles next?

Why was he acting like this? And why was it scarier than when he was cold?

I walked towards my own cubicle, gripping the coffee like it was evidence. A peace offering from the office devil. Whatever it was, it was deeply, unsettlingly strange. And the worst part? The coffee was really, ridiculously good.

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