Simon:Valid.
I shove the phone into my back pocket and stand, smoothing my tank top. "Yeah, one second." I open the door.
He's standing there in the hallway, taller than the frame, one hand braced on the doorjamb like he's being careful not to crowdme. He's taken off his boots, standing in socks that make him look…soft somehow, despite the rest of him being anything but.
His gaze flicks down my body—quick, almost involuntary—then snaps back up. Heat licks over my skin in the wake of that one fast look.
Professional, I remind myself. You are a professional. You have a laminated rule sheet like a nerdy landlord.
"Everything okay?" I ask.
"Yeah." He lifts his other hand, revealing an envelope. "First month's rent and security deposit. Figured I'd give it to you now before I forget."
The envelope is thick. He passes it to me, his fingers brushing mine. A jolt of awareness snaps up my arm like static electricity. His eyes darken for a fraction of a second, and I know he felt it too.
"Thanks," I say, hoping my voice betrays nothing. It still sounds a little breathy. "I, uh, appreciate it."
He nods. "Also…just wanted to say I read the rules."
"Oh." My stomach swoops. "Already?"
"Skimmed," he says. "You weren't kidding about detailed."
Mortification and pride battle it out in my chest. "I like expectations to be clear."
"Good." His gaze holds mine. "I'm good at following orders."
The words land somewhere between my legs and explode.
He doesn't say it suggestively, not really. There's no waggle of his brows, no smirk. Just a simple statement of fact in that low, rough voice.
But my body doesn't care about nuance. It hears I'm good at following orders and instantly supplies a mental image of him on his knees at the foot of my bed, waiting for me to tell him what to do.
My fingers tighten around the envelope. "Perfect," I manage. "That's…that's great."
His mouth does that half-curve again, like he knows where my mind went and is being merciful by not calling me out. "You heading to work soon?"
"Yeah." I glance at the clock on my nightstand over his shoulder. "Leaving in about ten minutes."
"I'll get out of your way," he says. "Didn't mean to hold you up."
"You're not," I blurt out. "I mean, you are, but in a not-bad way. That sounded worse. Just—thanks for bringing the rent by."
He inclines his head once, then steps back. "See you later, Ainsley."
The way he says my name—steady, weighted—should not make my toes curl. But here we are.
"See you," I echo.
When he disappears back down the hall, I close my door and flop face-first onto my bed, groaning into the comforter.
"This is fine," I tell my mattress. "This is totally fine. This is doable. I can live with a ridiculously hot, broody, ex-military construction worker and not jump his bones. I have self-control."
My body laughs at me.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the tiny bathroom, swiping mascara onto my lashes and adding a quick line of eyeliner that I swear is just for tips and not for my roommate, thank you very much. I grab my flannel, tie it around my waist, and snag my keys from the hook by the front door.
Troy is in the living room when I emerge, sitting on the couch with his elbows on his knees, scrolling on his phone. His boots are back on. His duffel is gone—stowed away in his room, presumably—and his posture is less rigid than before, like the house has seeped into him, softening the edges.
