Heat floods my face, creeping up my neck like wildfire. Oh, great. Fantastic. Betrayed by my own traitorous skin. I scramble for a response—a sharp, clever, or even witty response—but my brain, the useless thing, short-circuits under the weight of his knowing smirk.

“Nuh-uhu,” I blurt out, the wittiest comeback my overheating brain can muster. Smooth. Real smooth.

He chuckles, rolling up his sleeves again—his sleeves, which should honestly be illegal. “You’re cute when you lie, Smith.”

The use of my last name sends another thrill through me, but I refuse to let him see it.

Instead, I roll my eyes and focus on pulling the excess dough away from what I just cut, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I can regain some of my composure.

But then Theo’s voice drops again, his tone dangerous.

“By the way,” he murmurs, leaning down slightly so his lips are just shy of my ear, “if I ever really put my hands on you, you wouldn’t be able to focus long enough to know you dropped anything.”

Oh.

My hands freeze. My entire soul short-circuiting again.

Theo pulls back, so smug, acting like he didn’t just obliterate my central nervous system.

I swallow, my brain scrambling for a response that won’t make me sound like I’m about to faint.

I glance at him, meeting his gaze head-on.

“Big words, Hot Shot,” I murmur, mirroring his tone. “Hope you can back them up.”

His eyes darken just slightly, his jaw ticking.

Oh.

Oh, I got him.

He exhales through his nose, a slow, deliberate smirk forming. “Careful, Selene,” he warns. “Keep teasing me, and I just might prove it.”

And now I’m the one malfunctioning again.

We stare at each other, the tension in the air so tangible it’s suffocating.

Then, as if nothing just happened, Theo grabs the baking sheet, completely unbothered.

“So,” he says, casually, “how’d you end up working for Umbra? Not exactly a typical gig since the band is a literal mystery.”

My brain lags, still recovering. It takes me a second to register the question.

I clear my throat, pretending like I’m not on the verge of spontaneous combustion. “A friend of a friend,” I say lightly, trying to focus on rolling out another batch of dough instead of the fact that Theo is now licking cookie dough off his thumb like he’s doing it just to torture me.

He raises an eyebrow. “Funny, I haven’t heard that phrase in a while. Except recently. Mo told me a big, hulking FBI agent came to her house the other night, calling himself a ‘friend of a friend.’”

My fingers hesitate over the rolling pin, and I look up, my stomach sinking slightly.

“There is a very good possibility that would be my brother, Orion,” I admit reluctantly.

Theo studies me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Your brother’s an FBI agent?”