I scowl. He smirks.
Then he walks right past me.
“Where’s the light that's flickering?” he asks.
“What light?”
He jerks his chin toward the hallway. “The one that buzzes like a pissed-off bee.”
“I don’t hear anything.”
“You don’t listen.”
I bristle. “I listen.”
He pauses mid-stride, turns toward me slowly, and gives me a look that steals the air from my lungs.
“Yeah?” he murmurs. “Then listen now.”
I hate him. Not really. But kind of.
He fixes the hallway bulb in ten seconds, then tucks Junie into bed with that gravelly voice that should be classified as a weapon.
“Goodnight kid,” he says, smoothing her blanket with surprising gentleness.
“Night Captain Saxon,” she mumbles sleepily.
He closes her door halfway and steps past me into the kitchen.
I follow because apparently my legs belong to him now.
And that’s when everything shifts.
The kitchen lights glow soft and warm. The house is quiet. My nerves are loud enough to drown out thought.
I reach for a plate in the cabinet above the counter—my arms never quite long enough for the top shelf.
I stretch onto my toes, fingers brushing the edge of the ceramic. I wobble. And then strong hands clamp around my waist. I gasp, gripping the cabinet door to steady myself.
“Careful,” he murmurs. Right behind me. Too close. Too warm. His chest brushes my back. His breath hits my ear. My body goes molten.
“I— I almost had it,” I whisper.
“You almost fell,” he counters, voice low enough to curl inside my stomach.
“I didn’t.”
“You would’ve.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn.”
“You’re—” I can’t say anything coherent because he’s still holding my waist. My skin burns under his fingers. Slowly—so slowly I hate him for it—his hands glide upward, thumbs brushing beneath my ribs before he steadies my hips.
I freeze.
He looks down at me from behind, breathing hard. I can feel every inch of him. Every breath. Every bit of tension he’s trying and failing to hide.
