Behind me, the floor creaked. Bare feet on wood. Light steps. I could feel her getting closer before she even spoke.
“Do you always grind your coffee?” she asked, voice easy, unbothered.
I glanced over my shoulder. “Helps me think.”
Her hair caught the firelight, a faint blush of pink against gold and shadow. “About what?”
You, I almost said. “About writing,” I managed instead.
“Sure,” she murmured. But her eyes didn’t look convinced.
The smell of coffee filled the room, sharp and grounding. I focused on it, letting it hold me in place while she leaned one hip against the counter, too close. Too warm.
If I’d had any sense left, I’d have asked her to step back. Instead, I just poured the grounds slowly, carefully, pretending my hands weren’t shaking.
She leaned a little closer, her sleeve brushing my arm. I tried to ignore it. I really did.
I swallowed, aware of every inch of her near me, the heat radiating from her in a way that made my sweater feel suddenly restrictive. My pulse had picked up, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
Breathe. You’re not supposed to…
She tilted her head, grin teasing, and let her hand drift to the counter, just close enough that her fingers brushed mine when I shifted.
Just close enough.
“Silas?” Her voice cut through the whirl of thoughts in my head. “Are you actually thinking about anything except how much I make you sweat?”
I wanted to tell her that yes, that was entirely true, and that it was unbearable and impossible all at once. But I said, carefully neutral, “I’m considering the coffee.”
“Sure,” she murmured, eyes sparkling, but I knew better. She was testing me, seeing how far she could push before I cracked.
And the truth? Iwascracking.
Her smile widened. “You like that I notice, don’t you?”
I tried not to answer. Tried to convince myself she couldn’t see the way my pulse had sped, the way my hands itched to do nothing at all. But she did. She always did.
“You can look,” she whispered, leaning just a fraction closer. “I won’t stop you.”
I didn’t move. My hands still gripped the tin like it was a lifeline. My brain screameddon’t,but my chest betrayed me, tightening around the fact that sheknewexactly what she was doing.
Her sleeve brushed again, this time grazing my hand. I froze. Just a brush, and yet it felt deliberate. My pulse kicked faster than it had any right to, and I realized Ihadto look.
I did.
The movement was slow, careful, almost reverent, and the moment my eyes landed on her, everything else in the room — the fire, the snow, even the sound of the wind — faded into a soft blur. She wasn’t just standing there; she wasthere, leaning into the counter, bare arms pale against the wool that swallowed her, eyes daring me to notice.
My sweater, stretched across her chest, hardened nipples visible even through the thick wool. It swallowed her whole, falling well past her hips and landing mid-thigh. How many times had she rolled the sleeve? Three? Four?
I swallowed, the sound too loud in my own head. My chest felt tight, aware, suddenly too aware of everything: the heat radiating from her, the subtle tilt of her head, the way she wasn’t even trying to hide that she knew exactly the effect she had.
“There. That’s not so bad now, is it?” she said softly, almost a whisper, but the teasing was unmistakable.
I couldn’t deny it. I wanted to look away. I tried. But my eyes betrayed me. They stayed. Fixed. And Isawher noticing, smiling faintly at how effective it was.
“Youdolike that, don’t you?” she murmured.
I opened my mouth, closed it, cleared my throat, and finally admitted it to myself in the quietest way possible:Yes.
