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Her eyes catch mine for a fraction of a second longer than the moment requires before she looks away first, and I stand there afterward doing nothing productive with the rest of my afternoon except thinking about how close I came, standing in that doorway, to putting my hand back on her throat and finishing what her mouth started the night before.

I tell myself walking away is the responsible move. Whatever happened in that room was a lapse, adrenaline, and a bad dream.

By the time the house settles into its evening quiet, I’ve made my way down the hall to her door twice already and turned back both times, telling myself there’s no real reason to knock, no security report to hide behind this time, nothing but the plain fact that I want to see her. Both times I stand outside for longer than I’d ever admit to anyone, hand halfway raised before I lower it again and walk away, irritated at myself in a way I haven’t been in years over something this simple, something that should be easier than it feels.

The third time, I don’t turn back.

She’s awake when I knock, and she opens it before I’ve fully decided what I’m going to say once she does.

She’s in an old shirt, hair loose, and something in her face shifts when she sees it’s me, not surprise exactly, more like she’d been expecting this at some point tonight too.

Her eyes track over me for a second. “You didn’t have a reason this time,” she says, arms crossed loosely.

“No. I just wanted to see you.”

She holds the door a moment longer, studying me. “That’s a first.”

“Is it a problem?”

“I didn’t say that.” She steps back from the door. It’s not quite an invitation, but not a closing one either.

I step inside, and the door clicks shut behind me, and for a moment neither of us says anything, the same charged quiet from last night filling the space between us again like it never actually left the room.

She moves toward the window, arms still crossed, putting a small amount of distance between us that feels less like avoidance and more like she’s trying to think clearly, though it doesn’t seem to be working.

“We should talk about last night,” she says finally, direct in a way I didn’t expect.

“What is there to say?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” She takes a step closer, arms uncrossing now, something in her posture loosening even as her voice stays sharp. “You’ve spent all day avoiding me. I’ve spent all day avoiding you. I think that tells us both something.”

“I don’t know what to call it,” I say instead, honest in a way that costs me more than I expect it to. “I know I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since it happened.”

“Neither have I.” Her voice drops, quieter now, some of the sharpness bleeding out of it. “I keep telling myself it was just the dream. Adrenaline. That it would have happened with anyone standing close enough that night.”

“Would it have?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and the silence between us stretches out long enough that I can hear my own pulse picking up, an unfamiliar sensation for a man who’s spent his whole life keeping his body as controlled as his decisions.

“No,” she says finally, barely above a whisper.

I close the distance between us before I let myself think through the decision. Her breath catches audibly when I do, and neither of us moves to stop what’s clearly already been decided.

My hand finds her jaw, tilting her face up toward mine, and whatever distance she put between us at the window closes completely.

I kiss her.

It starts with the same careful pressure as the night before, but neither of us pulls back. Her mouth opens under mine almost immediately. I taste the soft sound she makes when my tongue meets hers. My hand stays on her jaw, thumb stroking once along the line of it, while my other hand finds her waist and pulls her flush against me.

“Artem—”

“I know.” My voice comes out rough against her lips. “I know.”

I walk her backward without breaking the kiss. The backs of her thighs hit the edge of the bed. I lower her onto it and follow, bracing my weight on one forearm so I don’t crush her. The kiss turns deeper, wetter. She makes another low sound into my mouth when I settle between her legs, the hard length of my cock pressed against the heat of her through the thin layers.

I work her shirt upward between kisses. She lifts her arms without being asked. The fabric clears her head, and I toss it aside. Her bra follows a second later. I pull back just far enough to look.

“Fuck,” I murmur, almost to myself. Pale skin, tight nipples already peaked in the low light. “Look at you.”