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My body doesn’t want to leave the soft, pillowy comfort of the couch, but I make myself stand, anyway. I’ll clean up properly tomorrow, but I don’t want the kids to come running down in the morning and trip over the boxes still scattered across the living room floor. Stacking them in the corner doesn’t take long, and I lift the coffee table back to its usual spot, before clearing off the crumbs and carrying the empty hot chocolate mugs into the kitchen.

There aren’t many dishes, so I figure I might as well do them. It’s less work for tomorrow, and maybe I’m putting off going to bed, because I know the second I turn out the lights and rest my head on the pillow, all I’m going to think about is how Scarlett tastes. How she felt. The little gasp when my tongue first met hers.

I grimace as I set the last mug on the drying rack. So much for not thinking about it.

I creep quietly up the stairs so I don’t wake the kids, resisting the urge to open their door, peek my head in and check on them. Logically, I know they’re fast asleep and perfectly fine, but it’s really quite amazing how much anxiety I feel at all times, worrying about them. If this is how I feel, I can’t imagine how Scarlett feels on a day-to-day basis.

But I would rather worry about them than not know them. It’s a more than fair trade-off.

I hesitate outside Scarlett’s bedroom, but force myself to carry on. There’s a pile of stuffed farm animals on my bed, because I was working in here this morning when the kids woke up, and Caitlin brought them through to “keep me company”. I carefully sit them on top of the dresser and strip down to my boxers. I’m too tired to stay awake, but too wired to even think about sleeping.

The bed creaks as I sink onto the mattress, my back pressed to the wall and my mind laser-focused on one thing: Scarlett.

Knowing Scarlett—and I’m starting to—she’s probably freaking out even more than I am. If I can’t sleep because I’m so keyed up, she’s probably tossing and turning, stressing about what happened downstairs. Running like the goddamn wind is a good sign she doesn’t want to talk about it—to me, anyway—but maybe I should check on her.

I press my ear to the wall to see if she’s still awake. The walls here are too thin, and I’m not surprised Scarlett struggles to heat the place. Sometimes, if we’re both awake, I can hear her shifting in bed, and, every morning, I hear the little chime that tells me she got a word right on her favorite crossword app.

The wall is cool against my ear as I strain to listen. There’s something, a soft electrical sound like a fan, but why would she be using a fan in December? I almost pull back, convinced she’s asleep, when I hear it—a singular hushed moan.

Oh fuck.

I should move away from the wall. I should grab my headphones or, at the very least, make a noise so she knows I’m awake. There are a lot of things I should do, and sitting completely still and savoring every little gasp, every breath, every whimper is not one of them. But that’s exactly what I do.

It’s a complete invasion of her privacy, and I’m going to hate myself for it in approximately ten minutes, but for now, I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes, picturing Scarlett twisted around in her sheets. Her dark hair fanned out over her pillow, a rosy pink glow on her cheeks, clenching the blankets. Her nails raking down my back … Fuck, imagining myself in there with her is the worst thing I could do, but once the thought crosses my mind, it’s burned there.

I picture myself kneeling between her thighs, gripping her hips, littering kisses over her stomach. Her body is a blur, because god knows my imagination could never do it justice, but I swear I can feel her warm skin beneath my fingertips.

I fist the covers to stop my hands from wandering. I’m already toeing a line here; touching myself to the sound of Scarlett getting off in the room next door, when she has no idea, would be crossing it. Hell, who am I kidding. I’m already crossing it, but that’s still a step further than I’m willing to take.

Just listening, imagining, has my dick straining painfully against my boxers. I bite down on my lip to stop myself from groaning as she sighs. I swear I can feel her warm breath against my skin.

My whole body is tingling, like the only thing holding me together is the pressure building and building around me.

And then Scarlett undoes me.

“Killian.”

I barely have time to shove my hand over my mouth as I come in my boxers. One word echoes in my mind over and over, completely fucking wrecking me with every pulse of pleasure that zips through me.

My name. She came with the sound of my name on her lips. Christ, that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. The post-orgasm bliss quickly dissolves into guilt. So much for not touching myself. Scarlett gave me the strongest orgasm I think I’ve ever had, and she has no idea.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I clean myself up, quickly and quietly, before tugging my pajama pants on in case either of the kids comes in while I’m sleeping. I tiptoe to the bathroom to brush my teeth, and scrub my face, but the soapy water swirling down the drain does nothing to wash away the shame settling over me.

The Michaelson eyes stare back at me in the mirror, riddled with guilt. Am I just as bad as my dad? He had no business wanting Scarlett, but he did, and he completely screwed her over to get what he wanted. I shouldn’t want her. She’s my dad’s— No. She’s not my dad’s anything. Fuck that. Fuck him. She’s not anyone’s anything. She’s Scarlett: a whole independent person, who just happens to be my dad’s ex, happens to be a mom, a best friend, and sister, a daughter. Good or bad, those things don’t define her.

But, good or bad, they’ve shaped her into the woman I can no longer pretend I don’t want.

And if the kiss, and the name she moaned when she fell apart are anything to go by … she wants me too. I just have no idea what to do about that. My dad complicates things. The kids complicate things. My passport complicates things. Everything is so goddamn complicated.

And the way her face swims before my eyes as I drift off, the way she’s the last thing I think of before I fall asleep, and the first thing I think of when I wake up the next morning—that’s the most complicated of all.

I’m falling for Scarlett Powell, and I’m already so far gone.

Fuck.

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