Page 16 of Ranger's Code

And I’m coming undone—quietly, messily, from the inside out. It isn’t a scream or a sob or a meltdown I can point to. It’s smaller than that. The way my hands tremble just slightly when I grip a measuring spoon. The way I double-check the locks on my bedroom windows before getting into bed. The way I catch myself searching for Gideon’s presence before I take a full breath. Every moment feels like a thread pulled loose, another layer of my calm coming undone, and I’m running out of stitches to hold it all together.

I find myself staring at the broad stretch of his back as he hauls sacks of flour, the muscles shifting beneath his shirt in a way that makes my mouth go dry. The low rumble of his voice across the kitchen sends shivers down my spine, making me drop my train of thought like a cracked egg. Everything about him—his presence, his control, his damn quiet confidence—grates at me in the worst and most irresistible ways.

He moves with a lethal kind of grace, powerful and contained, and it makes my skin buzz, my nipples tighten, and my thighs clench when I catch myself imagining those hands—so sure and strong—on my body instead of the countertops. It’s maddening. Erotic. Infuriating. And getting harder to ignore by the hour.

So when he corners a delivery driver just before closing—one I’ve already flagged as suspicious—and looms in that quiet, dangerous way of his, his voice low and coiled with warning, I react on instinct. The surrounding air has gone charged, the way it always does before a storm, and I don’t need a forecast to know trouble is about to break loose.

“Gideon,” I snap, storming outside after him. "Back off. Not everyone is a suspect."

“They are in my book... at least until evidence proves otherwise.”

The driver mutters something and scurries off, avoiding Gideon's eyes like a man who’s just realized he’s prey and not a predator. Gideon doesn’t even flinch. He stands there, calm as ever, like the whole encounter hasn’t raised his pulse a single beat—like he hasn’t just exhaled restraint in the shape of a warning.

I grab his arm, fingers digging in harder than I mean to. "You don’t get to charge into every delivery like you're the last line of defense. This isn’t a war zone—it’s my business. You could’ve gotten into a fight. Or worse, escalated things in a way I can't control." My voice wavers at the end, frustration tangling with something sharper, something too close to fear.

His gaze drops to my hand on his arm. "You worried about me, cupcake?"

"Don't call me cupcake."

Gideon grins. "Why? It seems appropriate."

I glare. “You can't intimidate every delivery person who comes here. I will lose my suppliers.”

"One of those suppliers put glass in your sugar... maybe you need new suppliers."

"One bag of sugar, and we don't even know that the supplier knew anything about it. It could be one rogue employee."

"Maybe, but maybe not."

“Gideon, I’m serious. I need you to back off.”

His expression turns serious and his jaw ticks. "So am I."

That tension doesn’t break. It follows us all the way home, settling around us like the charged air before a lightning strike. Even as we walk side by side from the bakery to the loft, the space between us vibrates with things unsaid—anger not fully burned off, fear still flickering under the surface, attraction pulled so tight it hums. Every brush of our arms, every sideways glance, only stokes the pressure building between us, until I’m sure if one of us so much as exhales wrong, the whole thing will ignite.

* * *

Later that night, we make a pizza from scratch. I put together the basic ingredients in a bowl. Our hands brush more often than not, the tension between us simmering beneath every touch. The flour dusts my forearms and streaks across the front of his shirt, but neither of us seems to care.

Gideon opens the fridge, finds the bottle of chianti he picked up with quiet intention that afternoon—like some part of him had known we’d need it. He twists the cap and pours the wine slowly, watching the deep red swirl in the glass like something rich and waiting. He hands one to me, our fingers brushing as I take it, the contact light but loaded. Then he lifts his own glass, clinks it softly against mine, and takes a slow sip—eyes never leaving mine.

When I roll up my sleeves and begin to work the flour into the mixture with practiced precision, Gideon moves behind me. His arms reach around me, his hands covering mine as if adding his strength and skill to my own. I can’t ignore the way his warm hands move in perfect synchronicity with mine, steady and capable. When his fingers linger on my wrists as we begin to roll out the dough, it feels electric—harmless and intimate and anything but accidental.

I can feel the strength in his fingers as he works the dough beside me, his knuckles brushing mine, the heat radiating off him in waves. When I lean forward to stretch the dough, his body moves with mine so close that the warmth of it wraps around me like a blanket.

My breath catches when his hand slides beside mine on the counter, steadying the dough, but it feels like he’s steadying me too. Every press of palm to flour, every indistinct murmur about texture or heat, layers with something unspoken—something thick with wanting. And when I glance over my shoulder, our eyes meet and I’m not sure if it’s dough or desire I’m shaping in my hands.

We bicker lightly over toppings, and I laugh when he claims anchovies are a sin, while passionately defending pineapple as the only acceptable 'controversial' topping. I counter that pineapple is only acceptable on pizza if paired with Canadian bacon, and even then, it depends on my mood. He looks personally offended, joking that I’ve just confessed to culinary heresy. The banter sparks heat that has nothing to do with the oven. When I finally stretch the dough and slide the pizza into the oven, I’m breathless—and not just from the heat of the kitchen.

Later, we eat cross-legged on the floor of my loft, our knees bumping now and then, the pizza pan balanced between us on a dish towel. The scent of garlic, roasted tomatoes, and charred crust hangs thick in the warm air, wrapping around us like a memory.

We’re too tired to pretend the day hasn’t frayed us both—too wrung out to keep up our usual snark or sarcasm. Half-empty wine glasses stand like forgotten sentinels on the coffee table, and flour streaks through my hair in places I’ve stopped trying to fix.

The silence has changed. It’s thick with the weight of a hundred unsaid things, but no longer sharp-edged or brittle. It has mellowed into something softer, slower. It’s intimate now, like a shared breath in the dark or fingers brushing beneath a table. Not tense, but charged. Comfortable in a way that makes my chest ache—heavy, not with pressure, but with possibility. It wraps around us like warmth from the oven, a quiet understanding that neither of us needs to name to feel.

Once we’ve finished eating, Gideon stands to clear the plates, and I follow him into the kitchen, drawn by more than just the need to tidy up. I watch the way his muscles flex under his shirt with every movement—slow, precise, effortless. He rinses a dish and sets it aside, the veins in his forearms catching the low light as he reaches for the next one. Something about the domesticity of it—his big body moving so calmly in my space, his strength turned toward something so ordinary—makes my stomach twist. He turns, about to speak—probably something safe, probably polite, the kind of words meant to put distance back between us. But I’m not in the mood for safe anymore.

"Thank you," I say, my voice softer than I mean, but completely honest. No deflection. No shield. Just truth, raw and quiet, and finally said out loud.

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