For six days I'd been asking—no, begging—for that dumpster. Mountains of broken furniture, water-damaged boxes, and God-knows-what lurked in every corner of this place. I couldn't even see the floors in some rooms. How was I supposed to transform this disaster into something habitable when I had nowhere to put the wreckage?
And yet, here he was, standing in the doorway, calm as ever, like he'd solved some monumental problem by simply showing up. My pulse quickened, and it wasn’t entirely from relief.
I wanted to glare at him, tell him how impossible it was to act like this was nothing, how every muscle in my body still ached from the memory of his kiss. But instead, I just blinked at him, rag clutched in sweaty hands, trying to focus on the dumpster outside instead of the tension curling like smoke between us.
He stepped toward me, slow and deliberate, the shadow of him swallowing the cluttered room. One of his large hands shot out, gripping my chin with an iron certainty that left no room for argument.
“You do know what happens if you run,” he said, voice low, edged with ice and something darker. “Going outside is a privilege, not a right.”
My jaw stiffened under his grip, and I wanted to shove him away, to tell him he had no right to speak to me like that. Every rational part of me screamed in protest.
And yet my chest was betraying me, fluttering as if his words had set it on fire. The memory of his hands, the weight of his body, the possessive press of his lips. The feelings all came back, unwanted and undeniable.
“Funny,” I said, tipping my chin up despite his grip, “I thought privileges came with perks, not threats.”
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, just enough to make my pulse spike. It wasn’t a smile, not really, just that impossible blend of amusement and danger that made my blood hum.
Then, without another word, he released my chin and walked to his bedroom. His steps echoed through the cluttered room as he left, leaving me standing there, furious, flustered, and impossibly aware of the emptiness he’d left behind.
The dumpster.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. He had left me with the monumental task of hauling half the house into that metal coffin by myself. I was a pretty small girl and had no idea how I was going to get some of the trash inside. My shoulders ached just thinking about lifting the jagged remnants of furniture that were stacked higher than I was tall.
I wanted to scream at him, to march into his room and shout until he came back, but instead, I gritted my teeth and dragged the first cardboard box toward the dumpster, muttering under my breath. “Unbelievable… he kisses like that and leaves me to die under a pile of crap. Real charming, Felix.”
I hoisted the first cardboard box, its bottom threatening to give way under the weight of broken dishes and torn fabric. It slid across my hands, forcing me to adjust my grip, and I nearly stumbled back. Sweat ran down my temples, sticking my hair to my forehead.
The next box was even heavier, filled with bent metal and shattered wood. I groaned as I lifted it, muscles trembling, and cursed under my breath. No matter how I angled it, it just wouldn’t fit neatly into the dumpster. I tried shifting it, grunting with effort, but it was stuck.
A shadow fell over me, and before I could even look up, a pair of strong hands pressed against the sides of the box. With a single shove, the heavy load slid smoothly into the dumpster.
I froze, heat rushing to my cheeks. Felix was right behind me, his presence close and commanding, and just like that, the impossible weight of the box had vanished.
He had changed into something suitable for cleaning, wearing dark jeans and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the kind of practical clothes that somehow still made him look dangerous and effortlessly in control. Even with his hands now smudged with grime from helping me, he looked untouchable, like a predator in a warehouse instead of a man who’d just kissed me like he owned me.
“Struggling already?” he said, voice low and sarcastic, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “I thought you were tougher than this.”
I scowled, shifting the box on my arms. “Glad you’re here to supervise, Felix. I don't think I could do this without your expert guidance.”
I turned back to the next load, battered wooden chairs that looked like they had survived a war. My small frame groaned under its weight as I tried to lift one, shifting and tugging to get it over the dumpster’s edge. Splinters dug into my palms, and I bit back a curse.
“Need a hand, or are you planning to wrestle it in alone?” Felix’s voice cut through the air, calm but edged with amusement. I felt the heat rise in my cheeks again, and the hair on the back of my neck prickled.
“I’m perfectly capable!” I shot back, gritting my teeth as I heaved. The chair teetered dangerously, and for a moment, I thought it was going to topple on me.
Before I could lose my balance, his hands settled lightly on the sides of the chair. With a smooth, practiced shove, it slid easily over the dumpster’s edge.
I froze, heart hammering. Felix was close, impossibly close, his presence pressing in around me.
“Careful,” he said, voice low, almost teasing, “don’t want you to hurt yourself before I get a chance to scold you properly.”
Heat flooded to my cheeks. Scold me? What does he mean by that?
I tilted my chin up at him, trying to hide how flustered I felt. “Oh, I see,” I said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You’re the disciplinary type. Should I be taking notes, or just thanking you for the warning?”
A slow smirk curved his lips. “Definitely the disciplinary type,” he said, voice low and edged with something dark, dangerous, and far too enticing. “But you might find my methods… intense.”
I froze for a fraction of a second, heat rushing to my cheeks again. Then I forced a glare at him. “Intense, huh? Great. Just what I needed while I’m buried in furniture and splinters. Really reassuring, Felix.”
