And not in the casual, caught-him-with-a-towel kind of way. No, he’s in the middle of the room, back turned to me, bent slightly forward, running a towel through his wet hair, muscles rippling in a way that should come with a health warning. His skin is tan and marred with old scars that look like claw marks—jagged, brutal things that rake across his back and sides. And even though part of me knows I shouldabsolutelyturn around and back out of the room immediately.
My brain short-circuits.
My foot kicks the edge of the rug and I drop the damn tray. The crash is deafening.
Porcelain shatters, silverware clatters across the hardwood, and the delicate teacup Mary probably handpicked for its aesthetic value rolls mournfully under the armchair.
Darius whirls around.
I freeze.
And then time stops.
He’s not just shirtless. He’sferal. His chest rises and falls like he just ran a mile uphill, his eyes glowing faintly—not metaphorically, not poetically, butactually glowing, like there’s fire beneath his skin. His jaw is clenched so tightly I can see the muscles twitch. There’s a stillness in his body that feels like it’s holding back an avalanche.
I lift my hands slowly. “I—um. Sorry. You didn’t answer. I thought…”
His gaze flicks to the tray. Then back to me.
I take a step back. “I was just trying to bring you breakfast. I’ll clean this up. I didn’t mean to…”
He doesn’t speak. Just grabs a shirt from the back of a chair and yanks it over his head like he’s trying to bury whatever part of himself I just saw.
The silence stretches.
And then he says—flatly, without looking at me—“Don’t come in here uninvited again.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my expression from cracking. “Right. Of course.”
I kneel to gather what I can of the tray. A chunk of toast, a whole strawberry, the remains of the teacup handle. My hands shake more than I’d like them to.
He still doesn’t move.
And just as I gather the last piece, I hear it. Barely audible. Almost lost beneath the hum of the fire behind him.
“Thank you.”
It’s not warm. It’s not inviting. But it’sthere. And in this house, that’s practically a miracle.
I don’t respond. Just nod again, gather what’s left, and step out of the room as calmly as I can before my knees betray me and start to shake.
Mary finds me in the kitchen thirty minutes later, hunched over the sink trying to scrub scrambled eggs off my sweater sleeve. She doesn’t say anything right away. Just stands in the doorway, arms folded, watching.
“I knocked,” I say finally, glancing over my shoulder. “Twice.”
“I imagine you did.”
“He didn’t answer. The door was unlocked.”
Mary nods, like that explains everything. “He’s unpredictable in the mornings. Especially this time of year.”
I tilt my head. “Because of the—what did you call it? The cycle?”
She stiffens. “I didn’t call it anything.”
“Right.” I rinse my hands. “Look, I’m not trying to pry. I just want to understand how to do my job without getting growled at.”
Mary’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but something adjacent. “If he growled, he was holding back.”
