I walked into the kitchen, wanting nothing more than a glass of water.

Veronica’s voice floated in from the hall, loud, as she spoke to Celophine.

I barely paid attention until I saw him.

Aaron.

Standing by the counter, a cup of coffee in his hands, steam curling lazily above it.

When did he get here?

I paused for half a second, acknowledging him with a brief glance before moving towards the cabinet. I reached for a glass on the top shelf, stretching once, then again.

My fingers grazed nothing but air.

A quiet exhale escaped me.

 More annoyed than embarrassed, I shifted my weight and stretched a little further, as if that would somehow make a difference.

It didn't.

Then I felt it.

Not his voice. Not his touch.

His presence shifting.

The slow, deliberate sound of his footsteps drew closer, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world and I was the only thing worth his attention. 

I turned before I could stop myself, immediately regretting how quickly my body reacted to him.

My eyes fall to his hands first. Strong hands, with veins tracing beneath his skin, every movement controlled and deliberate.

When I finally looked up, he was already watching me.

Not casually.

Studying me.

As though he could read every thought I was trying to keep to myself. 

His gaze lingered on my face, caught my hesitation, then drifted briefly to my lips.

The lips I'd been biting again.

Of course.

His jaw tightened, a subtle flicker of restraint crossing his expression, as though he were holding something back.

My breath caught when I realized I'd stopped breathing altogether.

His eyes met mine, searching my hazel gaze as he stepped closer.

 Suddenly, we were inches apart. 

Close enough for me to feel his breath against my skin and catch the scent of his cologne.

Coffee, cedarwood, and a hint of leather.

Why did he have to smell so good?

So effortlessly masculine?

He leaned in, not completely, just enough to make me painfully aware of every inch separating us.

Then his hands settled on my waist.

He didn't rush or grab me. His touch was firm, deliberate, and maddeningly controlled.

For a moment, he didn't pull me closer. He simply held me there, as though he hadn't decided whether he wanted to cross that final distance.

My fingers curled at my sides, betraying the composure I was desperately trying to maintain.

"You're distracting," he murmured, his voice low and rough. "And you know it."

I stared at him, unable to find a single word.

His lips curved into a slow smile. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and judging by his expression, he was enjoying every second of it.

He held my gaze for another moment before reaching past me to retrieve the glass.

He placed it on the counter beside my hand.

But he didn't step away immediately.

His hands remained on my waist for one breath longer, leaving me painfully aware of their warmth.

Then he released me, stepped back, and picked up his coffee as though nothing had happened.

As though he hadn't just turned my entire body against me.

I stood there, staring at the glass, trying to remember why I'd come into the kitchen in the first place.

My knees felt just a little weaker than I wanted them to.

“I was fine,” I said quickly, forcing the words out as though they could somehow reset the moment.

Aaron didn't move from where he stood near the counter. 

His gaze remained fixed on me, steady and unreadable, almost infuriatingly calm.

“Clearly,” he murmured.

His voice was low, controlled, almost amused, but not unkind.

Somehow, that made it worse.

I exhaled sharply and turned away before my body could betray me any further. 

Opening the fridge, I grabbed a bottle of water and tightened my hold on both it and the glass, as thoug

h they were the only things keeping me grounded.

“I’m just going upstairs,” I muttered, avoiding his eyes.

Then I left.

Fast.

Too fast.