My feet hesitate before obeying, like the rest of me doesn’t trust this moment. Still, I cross the room. Every step toward him feels both wrong and inevitable, like I’m walking willingly into gravity.
The notebook is cool under my fingertips when I flip it open, the pen heavy in my hand. My chest tightens as I hover over the blank page. A hundred questions are burning through me, but only one manages to bleed onto the paper.
Where am I?
It’s the dumbest question I could ask, but it slips out anyway.
He leans against the counter, eyes lowering briefly to the page. When he looks back up, his expression hasn’t changed.
“My home.”
I figured that much.
Why am I here?
Alexander’s brows lift slightly before he sets his coffee down on the counter.
“You came with me, Lucas. Willingly.” His gaze doesn’t waver. He’s looking at me too intently, and I feel it like static crawling under my skin. Yes, I know that, but it’s not an answer.Not really. My fingers tighten around the pen, frustration biting into my chest.
It’s getting harder to look at his stupidly tempting mouth forming those unhurried words as I read his lips.
I wasn’t thinking.
I manage to scribble. He glances down at the page, then back up at me. This time, his look is flat, bored, like I’m amusing him and irritating him all at once. He doesn’t reply.
I press harder against the page.Where are my clothes?
“I picked them up from the bathroom,” he says, “I took care of them.”
I pause, pen hovering. Took care of them? The words stick in my throat. Fuck he’s seen my briefs… I feel a blush creeping up, but before I can write anything else, he turns, walking to the massive kitchen fridge, and a gasp almost leaves me.
Christ… Why the hell is his back so toned?
His back muscles flex as he moves, lean and strong, and his waist—God, his waist has to be one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
He pulls out a bowl, sets it down, then slides it toward me with a quiet push across the counter.
“Eat this while I make breakfast.”
I blink at him, the words I just read from his lips slamming into me in a way they shouldn’t. Oh, Dear heavens, why do I want to hear his voice right now, his morning voice… what would it sound like? I have never been so desperate for something I can’t have. I absolutely hate myself for thinking this way; in fact, I should be ashamed of myself.
I glance down at the bowl. Slices of banana, blueberries, and strawberries lay neatly over yogurt, the colors sharp against white. Beautiful. Too carefully arranged, too tempting.
But my chest tightens, and I shake my head
I want to leave.
I write quickly, shoving the notebook forward.
His jaw ticks as he reads it. For a second, silence presses between us like a weight. Then his eyes flick up, heavy and searching, like he’s peeling me open without touching me.
“I’m making breakfast,” he says simply. “And you’re going to eat.”
I feel his words land heavily, final, and it makes me stiffen.
I set my pen ready to argue—but my stomach betrays me. Loudly. I know it’s loud, because when I risk a glance up, there’s the faintest smirk tugging at his lips before he hides it behind his mug.
Heat surges up my neck. My ears burn. I snap the notebook shut like that’ll cover my embarrassment.
