I sit there for a moment, confused by his abrupt departure. Every time we edge close to something real, he shuts down. Classic avoidance behavior, though I suspect in his case it’s less about avoiding emotion and more about maintaining control.
Which is undeniably attractive. God, what is wrong with me?
The shower runs. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
Restless energy crawls under my skin. The safe house is small—too small. I pace the living room, taking inventory. Reinforced door. Windows with security film. Weapons laid out on the coffee table. Everything about this space screams temporary and functional.
I wander to the small bookshelf in the corner. Mostly tactical manuals, a few paperback thrillers, one surprising poetry collection—Neruda. I pull it out, flip through pages worn soft with reading. Annotations in the margins, careful handwriting.
I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
The line is underlined twice.
My face heats. I slide the book back and continue exploring.
The kitchen: basic supplies, nothing personal. The living room: one couch, one chair, both positioned for clear sightlines to all entry points. And then there’s the bedroom.
I push open the door. One bed. Queen size. Navy sheets, military corners.
One bed.
The sleeping arrangements hadn’t occurred to me until now. Will he share it with me? The thought sends an unexpected thrill through my body. Or will he take the couch, maintaining that professional distance even though he’s already admitted he wants?—
The shower is still running. Twenty minutes now.
I drift back toward the bathroom, drawn by curiosity and something else. Something that makes my pulse quicken. The water sounds different through the door now. The hiss of the spray hitting tile has changed to the muffled drum of water hitting flesh.
A soft thud. Like a hand bracing against the wall.
My breath catches.
Another sound filters through the thin wood—low, guttural, unmistakably male. Strained. Needful. Almost pained.
Oh God. He’s?—
My hand flies to my mouth, but my feet stay rooted. He’s touching himself. Right there, just beyond that door, Jackson is?—
Heat floods my face, pools low in my belly. I should leave. Give him privacy. Walk away.
I press closer.
His breathing is harsh, uneven, filling the small space with a soundtrack of raw need. Another groan, deeper this time, vibrating through the door frame. My thighs clench involuntarily.
The pragmatist who described our chemistry like a science experiment is coming apart in there. All that control, shattered. Because of?—
“Fuck.” His voice, wrecked. Then: “Talia.”
My knees nearly give out. I brace against the doorframe.
He’s thinking about me.
The image forms instantly, unstoppable: water streaming over those shoulders I’ve been trying not to stare at. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking with the same precise control he applies to everything else. Except it’s my name breaking his control, my face he’s seeing when he?—
“Ta-lee-ya…” The name tears out of him, low and rough, more breath than sound.
Molten heat slides through me. It’s not just embarrassment. It’s a deep, hollow ache between my legs. Nathan never said my name like that. Like it was being torn from him. Like it physically hurt to want me this much.
If I were brave—if I were the kind of woman who could handle casual, who could separate emotion from sex the way Jackson clearly can—I’d open that door. I’d step into that shower and find out what it’s like to be wanted by a man who doesn’t apologize for his needs. Who doesn’t dress them up in pretty words or false emotion.
