Maeve was shocked. Her back pressed against the kitchen counter, her heart almost skipped a beat.

"Mr. McDaniel? What's wrong?" she asked.

Byron, wearing dark, post-shower clothes, had slightly wet hair falling onto his forehead, brushing his eyebrows and making his eyes seem colder and sharper. He placed his hands on the counter beside Maeve and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

"Maeve," he said, "don't you have anything to explain?"

"Explain?" Maeve was nervous and confused. "Do you want me to explain the cooking process?"

Byron chuckled softly, but his tone was cold. "Who were you trying on a wedding dress with today?"

Maeve immediately understood. He didn't think my post was a hint, did he? she thought.

"Mr. McDaniel, you've misunderstood. The wedding dress I wore was Mr. Brown's design. He asked me to help him with a fitting. I posted it on Twitter because I thought it was beautiful. I didn't mean anything else," she explained helplessly. It wasn't that she longed for a wedding; it was more like enjoying a delicious drink and wanting to share the feeling.

Looking at Byron's cold expression, Maeve added jokingly, "I haven't forgotten I'm married. I wouldn't casually try on wedding dresses. If I wanted to, I'd ask you to come with me."

Who says trying on wedding dresses is only for marriage? I could just buy one and admire it, she mused.

The coldness in Byron's eyes softened slightly. Seeing Maeve's bright eyes, the gloom in his heart lifted. He straightened up. "In your dreams," he said casually.

She wants me to accompany her to try on a wedding dress? Does she want to marry me that badly? he thought.

Maeve was about to speak when she heard the pot beside her. Her expression changed drastically. "My soup!" she shouted. She rushed to the pot, sighing in relief when she saw it wasn't ruined. She added more water.

Byron stood behind her, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Are you very familiar with this Mr. Brown?" he asked.

"Why?" Maeve replied.

"If you weren't, why would he let a designer like you model for him?" Byron said calmly.

Maeve thought for a moment. "I happened to be there. Plus, Mr. Brown's design wasn't finished and couldn't be publicly shown." The photos she posted were blurry; you couldn't even tell what the dress looked like.

Byron narrowed his eyes. "Is that so?"

"I'm glad I was there. That wedding dress was breathtaking! I've heard Mr. Brown is a design genius, and today, I saw it for myself. He's truly the soul of Eternal Hope," Maeve said, continuing to praise him, oblivious to Byron's darkening gaze.

When she turned to get dishes, her nose bumped into Byron's chest. She realized he'd been standing behind her.

"Mr. McDaniel, how—" she started, but Byron grabbed her wrist, pulling her against the cabinet. The items on the cabinet clattered softly.

Maeve's heart leaped. Her widened eyes reflected his handsome face as he leaned in. His breath brushed her cheek.

"Mr. McDaniel…" her voice trembled. Why did he suddenly… she thought.

Byron's expression was unreadable. He placed his palm on her face, sliding it to the back of her head, then pulled her closer.

She heard the simmering soup, the soft crackling of the fire. All her senses focused on Byron. His scent enveloped her. Her lips parted; her mind went blank. She didn't push him away.

Seeing her flushed cheeks, Byron's eyes darkened. His fingers caressed her earlobe, his gaze lingering on her lips. He was about to kiss her when he remembered something.

He recalled her words: "Next time, whether you’re drunk or not, please don’t treat me like that again."

His eyes narrowed, his Adam's apple bobbed. He tilted his head and bit her ear, as if punishing her.

Maeve's eyes widened in disbelief. "Mr. McDaniel, you…"

Byron let go, walking away with a cold face, offering no explanation.

Maeve touched her bitten ear, stunned. I think he wanted to kiss me, but stopped and bit me instead. Was he afraid I'd refuse? she thought. But he didn't care about my wishes before. He always just kissed me.

She thought of his irritated gaze and pursed her lips. He hadn't kissed her unreasonably, hadn't made her weak-kneed. Logically, she should be happy, but she felt a little upset.

Maeve took a deep breath, patted her cheeks, and decided not to overthink it. She checked on her soup.

After dinner, Maeve took her medicine and went to bed.

Byron glanced at the burn ointment on the table. "The burn on your back—didn't you apply ointment all day?"

Maeve was startled. "I think so. But it doesn't hurt anymore."

Byron said, "Take off your clothes. Let me see."

Maeve instinctively clutched her collar. "Mr. McDaniel, could you be more tactful? Do you usually talk like this?" He makes me take off my clothes constantly. If it were anyone else, they'd call him a pervert, she thought.

Byron looked at her indifferently. "You'll have to take them off eventually. Don't tell me you want to apply ointment through your clothes?"

"I'm fine!" Maeve ran to her room.

Byron stopped her, hooking his arm around her collar. "I've already seen it. Isn't it too late for you to be reserved now?"

Maeve's face flushed. He dragged her to the sofa.

"I'm sure it's healed," she mumbled, trying to resist.

Byron picked up the ointment, ignoring her protests. "Clothes."

The final sentence "Clothes" is likely a continuation of his command to remove her clothing and is grammatically incomplete in the original text, leaving it as is to maintain the original style and abruptness.