I whisper his name in my head, but I’m too scared to speak it aloud.
Too scared that if I do, this moment will break.
I rise slowly from the mat, trying to calm my breathing, but it’s not the Pilates making my chest rise and fall like this. It’s him.
My eyes flicker toward the doorway. Tyler stands there too, surprise still flickering in his eyes before he catches himself. Without a word, he steps closer and presses my hearing aids into my hand. His fingers are gentle, his smile even gentler.
Then he turns and walks back to his room.
I slip them on with trembling fingers. Everything sharpens. Sound returns.
But nothing compares to the way Alexander is looking at me. Still. Focused. Intense.
His gaze trails down—slow, deliberate, like his eyes are hands. I know what he sees. The cropped tank top that clings to my skin. The black shorts that ride a little too high on my thighs.The socks bunched up my legs. I feel my whole body blush, heat blooming under my skin like fire caught in a jar.
Then his eyes return to mine, and my breath catches.
“…Why are you here?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper, Unsteady and Small.
But I know he hears it. And I know he’s not going to leave.
He doesn’t respond immediately. He steps further into the room, closing the distance slowly. His gaze burns into me, not angry—but hungry, unreadable, a kind of longing so sharp it cuts.
“Aren’t you mad at me?” I murmur, my fingers curling slightly at my sides. “After what I said. I thought…”
“You think that little argument was enough to scare me off?” His voice is low, controlled, but there’s something simmering beneath it. “You haven’t been showing up, and you keep sending Mike away. What did you expect me to do? To wait around until you disappeared completely?”
My heart kicks in my chest. He sounds calm, but I can feel the edge in every word.
“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me again,” I admit, my throat tightening. “I thought I ruined everything.”
He doesn’t reply but studies me for a moment, quiet and unwavering, his eyes trail over my face like he’s trying to memorize the exact way I look right now.
Like I’m something rare. Something addictive.
And God… the way he looks at me makes my heart stumble in my chest. That hunger in his gaze—it isn’t subtle. It’s full. Possessive. Like I’m the most intoxicating thing he’s ever seen.
“Show me your bedroom, Lucas,” he finally says. It’s Soft. Almost gentle. But the weight behind the words hits me straight in the gut.
My stomach flips violently.
Because I remember.
I remember Saturday night.
When I had whispered the same thing to him.
When I had asked him to show me his room, he did, not just the walls or the furniture, but himself. He had kissed me like he was starved, touched me, made me moan his name, and held me like I was the only beautiful thing in his world.
The memory rolls through me like a wave of heat, thick and slow, leaving my skin burning. My chest tightens.
I look away instinctively, my gaze faltering. My cheeks flush before I can stop them, and when I glance back at him, the faint smirk playing on his lips tells me he knows.
He knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“I’m still waiting,” he says, voice low, husky, and threaded with something unspoken that shoots straight through me.
With my pulse pounding in my ears, I give him a slight nod.
