Heather sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her lap as though each tap tried to push away the chaos still spiraling inside her.
She had been waiting far too long. Somehow, the sound of her own anxiety echoed loudest in the quiet of the room.
He had taken his time tonight—unusually long in the shower. She could almost believe it was deliberate.
That he was dragging it out on purpose, forcing her to wait, to simmer.
Her thoughts tumbled over each other again, recklessly:
Don’t let this become a war. He’s not a problem if you stop letting him be one.
She rolled her eyes at herself.
That’s exactly the kind of thing someone tells themselves right before they scream into a pillow.
She shifted, searching for comfort that wouldn’t come.
Then she saw herself in the mirror—yes, that frown again, deeper now, like a permanent crease of stress.
Great. Angry and old.
She took a slow, deliberate breath. In... and out. This was temporary. Everything was temporary.
The living arrangement, the tension, even this forced marriage. Soon, the papers would be signed and this would all—what was the word?—end.
You’ll have your life back. Just you and Alex.
There. Simple enough, she thought, if only she could believe it.
The door clicked behind her before anything else changed. She didn’t even need to look.
She knew by heart when Caius entered—not by the sound, but by the weight that arrived with him. Everytime he entered the room, her body tensed up.
She didn’t dare look up right away, but the moment she did, she wished she hadn’t.
He stood there, breathtaking and irritating all at once. Barefoot, damp hair slipping down his neck. No robe, just fit black briefs that looked like they were molded to him.
"Oh, for God’s sake." She muttered under her breath.
He hadn’t bothered covering up more. He crossed the room slowly, as though oblivious to how this could feel aggressive.
He stopped in front of the mirror—the same mirror where she had just cursed her appearance—and casually ran a hand through his hair. His back was to her. His body glistened in the soft light.
She tore her eyes away and grabbed a pillow to hide behind, clutching it as if it kept her safe.
Not tonight. He’s not worth this.
He just stood there, casually existing—sweet, maddening existence. Like a poem no one asked for. She glared away.
Why couldn’t he be ugly and annoying? Just pick the two.
"Are you done?" she asked, twisting around to face him.
He looked at her through the mirror, then slowly turned his whole body her way. Calm and intentional. The water droplets still trailed down parts of his chest.
She grabbed onto another pillow and held it in front of her like a shield.
He moved closer and sat beside her. Close enough to feel his warmth. Every breath he took seemed heated and quiet in the stillness.
She picked at the threads on the blanket.
"Why?" he said in a low voice. "Do I make you nervous?"
He leaned back slightly and gave a half-smile. That look that always made her blood chase her heart.
"We both know it’s the other way around."
"Is it? Am I that predictable?"
She scoffed. "Please, don’t flatter yourself."
"I’m not falling for it." He said while he set his arms behind him, leaning into the bed. He didn’t say anything else—but his eyes said all kinds of crazy things. Still, he waited.
Her own heartbeat felt loud.
She managed to look away, toward the floor. "I thought you liked it when I told you, you misbehave."
He smiled. That slow, knowing smile—
He remembers what used to be. He knows the weight behind her control.
"I used to," he said in a quiet and certain time. "But you’re breaking my fragile heart with your ’i don’t love you anymore’ facade." He said, raising his hand to mimick clutching a weak heart.
That cracked her armor. She stood quickly so the blankets fluttered. "I refuse to do this."
He remained seated. Calm. As he studied her. He was stoic—almost a rock.
"If I didn’t know better," his voice low, dangerous, "I’d think you’re still... attracted to me."
She laughed too loudly, carefully gathering the skin care kit.
She saw his gaze flick to her belongings. She looked down at her hands.
He leaned back again—muscles shifting, obvious in the plain light he poured himself in. A model on some perfect luxury spread.
"Heather," he murmured softly, as though testing the tone, "you forgot something."
She turned back to face him by the open door. "What now?"
He held up a small object between his thumb and forefinger.
She couldn’t even let him finish.
"It’s my... underwear."
A curse slipped out. She hated that she’d forgotten it again. Somewhere between stewing and trying to stay cool, her mind unraveled and left it behind.
She forced herself to inhale. He twisted it between his fingers.
Her stomach clenched. The gesture was calm—but it meant everything. She felt violated.
Her voice trembled as she stood again and snatched the garment from his hand. Her heart pounded.
"You’re so disgusting!" she accused, arms holding it like she could burn it away.
He leaned back, almost bored, still watching her carefully as though measuring the impact. His gaze was oddly... small and quiet.
"You keep letting me find it and then you complain when I bring it back," he said evenly.
What? That should’ve made her lash out, but it... didn’t. Instead, she swallowed.
Her anger tempered into pragmatism. "I wouldn’t forget anything if your family moved out like you promised me."
He lifted his head. "Do you have a problem with them still being here?"
She folded her arms around herself. "I’m just saying—you said they’d move. This place would feel more breathable."
He rose gracefully and stepped back. "My sisters left yesterday. My parents will move out tomorrow morning."
She exhaled, relief washing over her chest.
He watched her respond a moment too long and she regretted loosening her guard for a second.
"But it’s not that I want them gone—it’s just..."
He interrupted her with a quiet laugh.
"Sleep well, Heather." And then he left the room, walking past her as though nothing had happened.