Finding the kitchen was easier than I expected.
I followed the muted sounds of faint classical music and found myself in a massive, state-of-the-art kitchen that looked like something out of a magazine. Stainless steel appliances gleamed under soft lighting, and a large island dominated the center.
Adrien was already there, standing at the island—not cooking, exactly but arranging something on a large silver tray.
He had changed too.
He wore the male version of the pajamas – the loose pants and a long-sleeved shirt in the same pastel blue with the same teddy bear print── he is wearing the matching pajamas like he didn’t have a billion-dollar company waiting for him in the morning.
He looked utterly ridiculous.
And yet, somehow, on him, it didn’t.
He still managed to look composed, even in cartoonish sleepwear. His hair was slightly ruffled, as if he might have run a hand through it but his posture was straight, his gaze calm and steady.
He looked up as I entered, and his eyes lingered on me for a brief moment, taking in the matching pajamas. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – satisfaction? Amusement?
"You look... convincing," he said, voice low with approval.
I raised a brow. "You’re really committing to this."
"Is there a script for this? Because I haven’t memorized any lines." I added
"No script," he replied as he opened the fridge, his presence a quiet, steady anchor. "we are making dinner together."
"Dinner," he repeated with a small grin. "Nothing staged about cooking, right? Just us, making something simple."
I crossed my arms, trying not to let my nerves show. "And the photos? When do the cameras come out?"
He moved fluidly, opening a cabinet and pulling down two matching white ceramic bowls. "They’re already positioned. Discreetly. A few shots from the window — warm kitchen light behind us. Nothing that screams ’set-up.’ Just two... people."
"Two people," I echoed softly.
Adrien’s fingers traced the edge of a bowl. "They’ll sell the story much better if the world believes it’s real. That’s why tonight matters."
I rolled up my sleeves and moved toward the island, trying to push down the surreal weight of it all. "So, what’s the menu, Chef Walton?"
He shot me a half grin and tossed a carrot on the cutting board.
"Something simple. Pasta, salad, and maybe some wine. Nothing too elaborate—you need to look relaxed, not stressed."
I picked up a paring knife and began peeling the carrot, watching him as he switched on the stove and set a pot of water to boil.
"There’s cocoa on the stove. Real chocolate. No powder." He said suddenly.
I raised a brow. "You made hot chocolate?"
He shrugged with one shoulder. "Thomas did. I supervised."
I bit back a laugh and leaned against the counter as he poured steaming liquid into two mug.
He handed me a mug, Our fingers brushed—just for a second. But his hand lingered. Just long enough for a picture.
"Smile," he said under his breath.
I took a sip of the cocoa, letting a soft smile bloom across my face.
"Should we talk about our future next?" I asked sweetly. "Maybe pose by the fireplace with a golden retriever?"
Adrien smirked. "Already tried that. The dog didn’t like me."
I laughed, covering it with my mug. "Shame."
Then, as if on cue, he reached out and brushed a loose strand of hair from my face, his eyes never leaving mine.
"There," he said. "Perfect."
"Thanks?" I said, thrown off.
He chuckled. "You’ve only cut a carrot, Miss Miller," he said, nodding toward the cutting board.
I looked down at the single, perfectlyy peeled carrot on the board. It did look rather lonely.
"Hey," I protested lightly, putting the knife down. "I’s perfectly peeled. Quality over quantity, Chef."
He laughed again—genuinely this time, a sound that seemed surprisingly genuine in the sterile perfect kitchen. "Fair enough. But we have a whole salad to build, and pasta doesn’t cook itself. Unless your talents extend to telekinesis?"
"Only when I’m well-caffeinated," I replied, grabbing another carrot. "Or... cocoa-nated, I guess."
We fell into a rhythm then, a silent agreement taking over.
We worked side-by-side at the large island, the vastness of the kitchen feeling less intimidating with the shared task.
The faint classical music continued, a quiet backdrop to the low hum of the refrigerator and the muted clinking of knives on the cutting board.
Adrien explained something about the type of pasta he’d chosen, something about how it held sauce better.
I nodded, pretending to absorb the culinary wisdom while mentally observing: the way his sleeves were rolled up just so, revealing a glimpse of a strong forearm; the focused line of his jaw; the surprising domesticity of him in those ridiculous pajamas. tch.. he looks so funny.
And yet... not.
He chopped onions with practiced ease, not a single tear shed, while I struggled slightly with a cucumber, the knife slipping once. He paused, watching me.
"Need a hand?" he offered, his voice neutral but his eyes glinting with amusement.
"I think I can handle a cucumber, thanks," I muttered, focusing harder. I didn’t want to appear completely helpless, even if it was for a fake relationship.
He came over anyway, just standing a little too close, his presence a quiet weight beside me.
He reached past me and picked up a large chef’s knife. "Hold it like this," he instructed, his voice calm. His fingers, long and capable demonstrated on a practice slice. "Think of it less as attacking the vegetable and more as... cooperating with it."
It was ridiculous.
Adrien Walton, giving me a private lesson on chopping vegetables while we were both dressed as teddy bears and acting for hidden cameras.
I tried to mimic his grip, feeling clumsy under his gaze. He didn’t rush me or criticize, just watched for a moment, and then gently adjusted my hand position─ his fingers cool against mine.
"Better," he said quietly. "Nice, even strokes."
I focused on the cucumber, trying to ignore the absurdity of the situation and the man standing next to me.
"Okay," I said, pushing the small pile of vegetables towards him. "Phase one: pasta complete and vegetable mutilation, complete. What’s next?"
He picked up a carrot piece, inspecting them with mock seriousness. "Satisfactory," he declared. "Phase two: sauce making."
As he stirred the sauce. He reached across the island for the salt grinder just as I was reaching for the pepper. Our hands brushed again, his fingers lingering against mine for a fraction longer.
"Careful," he murmured, his gaze meeting mine across the cutting boards. There was no trace of amusement now, just a steady, intent look.
"Careful," I echoed, my voice a little breathless.
Then he turned back to the food.
Moments later, just as Adrien was about plating our dinner—
Click.
A barely audible sound from near the window. I looked over to see a camera lens discreetly angled our way — the first of several hidden devices.
"They’re rolling," I said softly.
Adrien’s smile faltered just a little but only for a second then he came closer to me. "Remember they’ve got eyes on us." he said. "Thermal lenses probably. So act like you like me."
I stepped closer. "You mean like this?" I rested my free hand on his arm.
He gave me a slow once-over. "A little more."
So I leaned in — just a touch — and tilted my head like we were sharing a private joke.
Then he smiled, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but would look perfect in a headline.
"Perfect," he said quietly. "They’ll eat this up."
I was just about to speak—
And then he kissed me.