That godforsaken back door creaks open.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
That sound—the scrape of swollen wood against an old, metal threshold, hinges whining under too much history and not enough WD-40—is etched into my memories. I can go ten years, or a lifetime, and still know it. There is only one personwho has always preferred to enter through the back door on any occasion, instead of using the front door like everyone else.
The air shifts before he even steps inside.
Like the atmosphere itself is bracing for impact.
Like the molecules are scattering in warning.
Alexander Cruz walks through the door like the goddamn universe has been holding a breath for him.
His gait is easy, as if he has all the time in the world and not a single apology to offer. He’s taller and broader than the boy I remember, towering maybe a good six feet four inches now. Life seems to have filled him out in all the right places just to spite me.
His dark hair is messy and thick, as if he half-heartedly ran a hand through it on the way over. Short on the sides and longer on the top, it drops in uneven waves across his forehead.
His features are sharp, cut from angles too precise: chiseled cheekbones, straight nose, stubborn jawline lined with the faintest hint of scuff.
And then, of course, the mustache.
Thick, clean and unapologeticallyslutty.
The kind of mustache that makes women want to risk everything on a Tuesday night just to see what riding it would feel like.
Alex pulls the back door shut with one hand and shrugs off his cracked brown leather jacket—creases soft and well-loved from noticeable years of wear. He proceeds to toss it onto the counter with the same practiced carelessness he’s always had, making my stomach twist sideways.
His warm-brown skin now exposes the tattoos sprawling from his hands, up his arms to God-knows where else. Intricate blackwork and traditional style pieces tangle together and disappear under his T-shirt sleeves. And there, blooming defiantly on the center of his throat, is a red rose—dark and bold, infull-petal bloom just below his jawline. It’s inked so vividly it almost looks alive when his throat bobs.
A rose that demands you look at it—at him—whether you want to or not.
It has to be a coincidence.
I don’t realize my mouth is hanging open in shock until the fork falls out of my hand and clatters softly against my plate. My fingers twitch before I curl them tightly in my lap to try and contain myself.
His hazel eyes sweep across the room, gold and green and brown tangled together in a mess that shouldn’t make my chest ache like it does. The same eyes that used to watch me with something almost reverent when he thought I wasn’t looking. The same ones that burned with mischief when he was about to purposefully say something to push my buttons.
Those gold and green and brown eyes lock onto mine as he smiles a crooked, cocky smile that I’d spent my whole adult life trying to scrub from memory.
Equal parts charm and daring.
Equal partsI know you hate meandyou’ve always loved me anyway.
“Sorry, I’m late,” he drawls, his voice a shade or two lower and rougher around the edges now.
Like smooth, aged whiskey.
Like trouble wrapped in silk.
Cam huffs, unfazed. “You’re always late.” He gestures toward the kitchen counter without glancing up from his plate. “Food’s still hot. Grab a plate.”
But Alex isn’t looking at Cam.
He hasn’t looked at anyone else in this house since he walked in.
He’s looking atme. Locked and steady.
A breath catches sharp behind my ribs before I can choke it back.
