But she should be. She had no idea what she was asking for. What being with him would mean.
The generator coughed again, longer this time.
He pulled on jeans and a thermal shirt, then headed to the kitchen. He'd check it after coffee. After he'd gotten his shit together enough to face another day of sweet torture.
Twenty minutes later, he stood at the kitchen counter inhaling his second cup of black coffee when he heard her door open. His entire body went rigid, hyperaware of every soft footfall as she approached.
"Morning." Her voice was sleep-rough, and it did things to him he didn't want to examine.
He turned, and immediately regretted it. Her hair was tousled from sleep, falling in messy chestnut waves around her face. She wore flannel pajama pants and an oversized sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone. Her green eyes were still heavy-lidded, and she had a pillow crease on one cheek.
She looked like everything he'd ever wanted and couldn't have.
"Coffee's ready," he managed, his voice rougher than intended.
She moved past him to get a mug, and he caught her scent, warm and sweet from sleep, with traces of his soap underneath. His cock stirred, and he gripped the counter until his knuckles went white.
"Did you hear that weird sound earlier?" she asked, adding cream to her coffee.
"The generator. It's struggling with the ice."
She turned to face him, concern flickering across her features. "Is it going to be okay?"
"Should be. I'll check it after breakfast."
They fell into their morning routine—him cooking while she sat at the counter—both pretending the air between them wasn't charged with days of unresolved tension. But today felt different. Heavier. Like the calm before lightning strikes.
When she reached for the syrup at the same time he did, their fingers brushed. But instead of pulling away, he grasped hers and held on.
"Lex." The way she said his name—soft, questioning, with just a hint of a plea—nearly broke him.
He should release her. Should put distance between them. Instead, he found himself turning his hand, letting their fingers interlock. Her pulse jumped under his thumb where it rested against her wrist.
"This thing between us," she whispered. "It's not going away, is it?"
"No." The admission scraped his throat raw. "It's not."
"Then why?—"
The lights flickered. Just for a second. But in that brief moment of darkness, Lex felt his control slip. His eyes flashed, the wolf surging forward, and he knew—knew—they'd gone gold because Jules gasped.
The lights came back on.
She was staring at him, lips parted, eyes wide. "Your eyes..."
"They do that sometimes. Trick of the light." He pulled his hand away, leaning back in his chair.
But she was still staring, and he could see the wheels turning in that crazy mind of hers. Cataloguing all the strange things about him.
Before she could voice whatever conclusion she was reaching, he grabbed his coat. "I should check that generator."
"Lex—"
"Eat your breakfast before it gets cold."
Then he fled like the coward he was.
The generator shed was small, barely big enough for the machine and one person. Lex squeezed inside and immediately saw the problem. Ice had built up on the ventilation system, making the motor work harder than it should. He grabbed his tools and set to work, trying to focus on the mechanical problem instead of the woman he'd left in the kitchen.
