CHAPTER 33

HERMIONE

Silence hummed softly after the call ended. The kind that settled between two people who didn't need to fill every moment with words.

I was still curled on his lap, one of his arms lazily draped around my waist, the other resting on the arm of the chair. His thumb moved in slow, unhurried circles against my hip, grounding and affectionate. I let my head rest against his shoulder, content in the quiet. The chaos of the outside world didn't exist here—not in this office, not in this moment.

"I can't believe you told your mother I was on your lap," I murmured eventually, a teasing smile in my voice.

Dylan's mouth twitched. "I told her the truth."

I lifted my head just enough to look at him. "And now she's planning a meeting."

"She always is," he said with a sigh. "But don't worry. She won't ambush you. I won't let her."

"You say that she's an apex predator."

"She is," he said, completely serious. "In Louboutin heels."

That made me laugh—a soft, genuine sound that filled the room and made his eyes warm.

"But if she tries anything, I'll protect you," he added. "Always."

"You keep saying that."

"Because I mean it." His hand shifted, fingers brushing a bit lower now, possessive without being demanding. "Even from my own family."

My stomach chose that moment to rumble—loud enough to interrupt the mood.

I blinked, then groaned, dropping my head dramatically against his shoulder. "And just like that, the romance dies."

Dylan chuckled, the sound low and warm. "You're hungry."

"Starving."

He gave me a look that was half amused, half predatory. "I could feed you in a number of ways."

"Dylan."

"Fine," he smirked. "Breakfast it is."

He lifted me effortlessly, setting me on my feet before rising with fluid grace. I reached for his hand instinctively, and he laced our fingers together like it was a habit.

We walked to the kitchen barefoot, wrapped in the kind of morning glow that didn't come from sunlight but from something quieter—something real.

The kitchen was sleek and modern, all marble and matte black finishes. The scent of fresh espresso still lingered in the air, and I could tell Dylan had already been here once this morning.

"Sit," he said, guiding me to the island stool. "You get the full Voss breakfast experience."

"Sounds fancy."

He smirked. "Not really. But I do make perfect eggs."

"And coffee?" I teased, raising a brow.

He turned to the counter, grabbed a mug, and pulled out his favorite coffee blend. "I'll show you how I like mine."

I watched as he moved with calm precision—scooping, grinding, pouring with practiced hands.

"Two and a half teaspoons. Not three. Never three. It throws off the balance."

I tilted my head. "So you're a coffee snob?"

"Absolutely." He glanced at me over his shoulder, grinning. "But I will make it worth your while."

"Oh yeah?" I propped my chin in my palm, watching him. "Show me."

Dylan worked with the efficiency of someone who had perfected the art of making coffee to match his exacting standards. The kitchen seemed to come alive under his movements—sleek countertops, polished chrome, and the low hum of his morning routine. It was like watching someone put on a show, but the kind of show that felt effortless, natural, and incredibly intimate.

"You're sure you're not just trying to impress me with your coffee-making skills?" I teased, watching his hands as they moved.

He glanced over his shoulder, his grin widening at the playful edge in my voice. "Maybe a little." He reached for the milk, pouring it into the cup with a practiced hand, his eyes never leaving me. "But you'll see, it's all in the details. This is the best way to start the day."

I grinned, leaning forward on the stool to get a better look. "I'll be the judge of that."

He added a precise amount of foam to the top, then slid the cup over to me with a flourish. "There. Perfectly balanced."

I took the cup in my hands, bringing it to my lips. The warmth of the coffee seeped into my skin, and I took a sip. My eyes closed involuntarily at the rich, velvety taste. "Okay, I'll admit it. This is incredible."

Dylan leaned back against the counter, watching me with that knowing look he wore whenever he'd won a silent victory.

"Told you." He shot me a wink.

I set the cup down and took a deep breath, a playful idea forming in my head. "So, you've got the coffee down. And you can cook really well, what exactly are you not good at Mr Voss?"

His lips twitched, clearly enjoying the challenge. "You want to find out?"

I stood from the stool, walking over to the counter where he was standing. "Absolutely." I reached for a carton of eggs, glancing at him with a grin. "tell me what you're not good at, Dylan."

He raised a brow, moving closer as I cracked an egg into the bowl. "You want to try your hand at this, or should I just take over?"

I was already mixing the eggs together, but I could feel his presence so close behind me, his body heat radiating. "I'm good. But if you're worried, you can stay close and supervise."

The challenge was clearly accepted. He moved in even closer, his hand brushing mine as he reached for the butter. "I'm happy to supervise," he murmured, his breath warm against my neck.

I felt a shiver run through me, but I ignored it, focusing on the eggs. "So, what's your secret ingredient?"

"Patience," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he moved to the stove. "And a little bit of salt. You'd be surprised how much difference that makes."

I stood there, leaning against the counter and watching him work, trying to ignore the tension building between us. But it was hard to ignore when he kept brushing up against me, his body so close I could feel the heat of his presence like a physical thing.

He took the skillet in his hand, giving me a side glance. "You've got to keep them moving. No overcooking."

"Got it." I stood up straighter, determined to impress him. "And what about coffee? You said it was all about balance. Does that apply to eggs, too?"

"Absolutely." He slid the eggs into the pan, moving with careful precision. "Too much heat, and you ruin the texture. You need patience and timing."

I raised an eyebrow, leaning closer to him, the air between us charged. "Sounds like a metaphor for more than just cooking."

He paused for a moment, his eyes locking with mine. The air seemed to thicken, the hum of the city outside a distant noise. "Maybe. But some things are worth the patience."

I took a small step closer, my heart racing. "And what exactly is worth the patience?"

He didn't answer immediately, instead turning back to the eggs, his movements slow and deliberate. "Some things are just worth the wait," he murmured, then added, "Like this."

I couldn't help but smile at the double meaning. "You're too confident."

He chuckled softly, his voice rougher now. "It's not confidence, Hermione. It's an experience."

Before I could reply, he reached out and gently brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering a moment too long, his touch soft yet electrifying.

His gaze darkened slightly as he stepped closer, his mouth brushing against my ear. "But if you want to know the real secret," he said slowly, "it's about knowing what—and who—you want."

My breath caught. And in that moment, the kitchen—his penthouse—everything around us faded into the background. It was just him and me.

"I think we've got a pretty good thing going," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dylan's lips curved into a grin as he stepped back, breaking the tension. "Breakfast first, then. We can get to the serious stuff later."

I laughed softly, watching as he flipped the eggs, the softness of his focus and the depth in his eyes making the simple act of cooking feel intimate, like a promise for something more.

"Fine," I said, though I didn't really mean it. "But you owe me more than just breakfast."

"Oh, I intend to," he said, a playful glint in his eyes.

And just like that, the playful, easy banter returned, wrapping us up in the cozy, warm bubble of the morning. But I knew the day ahead would be anything but ordinary. With Dylan, nothing ever was.