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I step out of the fabric pooled at my feet and follow him without hesitation.
“I’d appreciate it if you stopped building entire scenarios in your head, Thalia,” he says as he starts up the stairs, my hand still in his, my body trailing just behind him. “I know people will have questions, and yes, they’ll probably ask you more than they’ll ask me,” he adds, a hint of amusement slipping through. “But you don’t owe anyone an explanation. It’s your life—you get to live it however you want, however it feels right. No justifications needed.”
“That’s easy for you to say, Ethan,” I reply, tightening my grip on his hand. “Unlike you, I actually talk to people.”
“I talk to people too,” he counters. “Just… selectively,” he adds, a trace of edge in his tone.
“Hey, what you do doesn’t count as communication,” I shoot back, mildly breathless as we near the top floor, my lungs working harder than I’d like to admit. “You listen, and then you decide if the situation deserves a response.”
That makes him laugh softly, but he doesn’t argue.
When we reach his bedroom, he opens the door immediately this time, guiding me inside before closing it behind us.
The lights come on automatically, revealing everything I barely registered the last time I was here.
Beige and black dominate the entire space, just like the rest of his home—clean, masculine, Ethan.
At the center, a massive black bed with crisp white sheets. On either side, nightstands holding a few books, a charger, a tablet—everything minimal, everything in its place.
To the right, a large beige desk covered in documents and an open laptop, the chair behind it imposing, dark, unmistakably his.
The far wall is nothing but glass, opening toward the courtyard and the mountains beyond, the view stretching out into the distance.
To the left, the bathroom door—the same one he disappeared behind last time—and beyond it, the dressing room. All black, his clothes arranged with precise, almost obsessive order. Not a single detail out of place.
I feel the pull to step in, to explore, to understand him through everything he surrounds himself with, but this isn’t the moment.
He lifts our joined hands—the same one he never let go of—and guides me into a spin, forcing a slow pirouette that ends with me pressed flush against him.
He catches me easily, arms circling my waist, and kisses me again—soft at first, unhurried, grounding.
And just like that, the world shifts.
There’s no space left for the outside noise, no room for questions, or for anyone else’s opinions.
There’s only him.
His scent wraps around me instantly, familiar and overwhelming, slipping past every defense I have without resistance.
The warmth of his body against mine erases any coherent thought; the world narrows to the pressure of his hands, the rhythm of his breathing, the way his mouth moves against mine.
The kiss deepens, turning firmer, more demanding, laced with a possessiveness that ravages me before I can even think to resist.
I let go completely, sinking into it—into him—into the unhurried, steady way he takes his time, as if he’s in no rush to get anywhere as long as I’m right here.
“Can you do me a favor and start dressing more appropriately for work from now on?” he murmurs against my lips, barely breaking the kiss before claiming me again, stronger this time, more insistent.
Our tongues meet in a heated rhythm, tension snapping into place like it always does, piercing and unforgiving.
“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” I ask, breath catching, genuinely surprised.
He exhales, frustration slipping through as he rests his forehead against mine, both hands sliding down to my ass before pulling me firmly into him.
“I don’t know, Thalia,” he says quietly, the restraint in his voice making the words heavier. “But I can’t fucking concentrate when you walk in wearing those tight, short dresses—somehow perfectly appropriate and completely inappropriate at the same time.”
His tone changes, lowering, sharpening.
“And I hate that all the men on our floor spend half their day imagining what you look like without them.”
