At least, that’s what I told myself.
But something shifted inside me when he called me fatty—something tired, something worn thin from years of being the easy target, the quiet one, the one no one defended.
And then—Sten had moved.
Fast.
Precise.
Controlled.
Like he had every right in the world to end that moment.
And for the first time in a very long time, I hadn’t felt small.
Maybe that was it.
Or maybe—my gaze drifted back to him.
No.
It wasn’t just that.
Because now that I was really looking—really seeing—I had no idea how I’d missed it before.
He wasn’t just tall.
He was huge.
Not bulky.
Not clumsy.
But powerful in a way that felt intentional—like every line of muscle beneath his black-on-black clothes had been carved there for a purpose.
His shoulders stretched the fabric of his hoodie.
His arms—oh my freaking goddess.
The way they moved when he’d lifted Gunner?
It was better than reading about the boy aquarium—er, I mean hockey romance of course.
Sten’s strength?
Effortless.
Terrifying.
And beautiful.
My stomach flipped.
Which was ridiculous.
Because I did not get flustered over men—or Monsters.
Not like that.
