She means me.
Something settles in my chest, heavy and grounding all at once. This house has been a refuge, a fortress, a place where I could disappear between jobs.
Tonight, it becomes something else entirely with her here.
Home.
I take her bag before she can reach for it. She doesn’t argue, just lets me carry it down the hall.
The bedroom echoes the rest of the house—clean lines, neutral tones, nothing wasted, nothing out of place.
“The bathroom’s there,” I say, nodding toward the open door. “Take your time.”
She does.
I undress while the water runs, stopping at my underwear. I sit on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, waiting. It’s not a position I’m used to—this kind of stillness without a mission attached. But I don’t move.
When she comes back, she’s changed into a simple T-shirt and sleep shorts. No effort to be anything but comfortable. And somehow that does more damage than lace ever could.
She crosses the room, eyes never leaving my face. Up close, in the light, she really looks at me—features, scars, the truth of me without shadow or disguise. Her fingers come up and brush my jaw.
“So this is you.Bastien.”
I huff a quiet breath. “Guess this means no more masks.”
She shakes her head, a small smile touching her mouth. “You can still wear the mask whenever you want… forfun.” Her gaze holds mine, unflinching. Curious. Unafraid. “But I very much like who’s underneath.”
Something tightens in my chest. Not desire. Something closer to surrender.
I shift on the bed, making room for her. And when she climbs in beside me, the distance that once defined us disappears. Not in heat or urgency, but in the simple fact of being seen and staying anyway.
She turns onto her side, facing me. The lamp stays on. No darkness to hide in. No angles that soften or disguise.
Her hand comes up, cupping my face. Her thumb brushes along my jaw, fingertips grazing the rough line of stubble.
“These golden-brown eyes.” She looks deeply into them. “I knew them before but not this way.”
I don’t move.
“And this,” she says, fingers tracing the faint scrape along my cheek. “Stubble looks good on you.”
Her hand drifts, unhurried—thumb brushing my lower lip, the bridge of my nose, learning me by sight and touch. Nothing rushed or hidden.
Her fingers slide into my hair, testing the feel of it. “I like this.”
Her gaze lifts to mine. “You’reverysexy.”
The words land without performance or intent—just honesty. And somehow that undoes me.
Her gaze holds mine, steady and searching.
“Am I what you expected?”
The question isn’t about my face. Not really.
“No. You’re better. Way better.”
We lie there, faces inches apart, eyes locked, the room quiet except for our breathing. No masks. No darkness to blur the edges. Just the truth of what we are.
