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She reaches her luggage, grabs it, and slowly walks past me, her steps careful, measured, like she’s trying not to brush against me. Then she stops right beside me, in the doorway, her eyes moving around my bedroom.

“I didn’t have a choice,” she says softly, almost a whisper, unsure whether she even wants me to hear it.

I don’t respond. Don’t move.

She lingers there for a moment longer, waiting for something—anything—from me. When it doesn’t come, she steps into the room and leaves her suitcase to the right of the door.

A few seconds pass before I finally turn and follow, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.

I head straight to the dressing room, needing distance, needing a second that isn’t filled with her.

Inside, I exhale slowly, dragging a hand over my face, pressing my fingertips into my eyes. My jaw clenches as I stand there, forcing my breathing to even out, forcing my body to relax instead of react the way it wants to.

I let the towel drop, grab a pair of white boxers, pulling them on with deliberate movements, grounding myself in a simple, mechanical act.

I return to the bedroom and walk straight to the bed.

She hasn’t moved from the spot she chose the moment she entered.

Ignoring her completely, I sit down and pick up my phone, scrolling through emails like this is just another normal night.

Realizing I’m not going to say anything, not going to acknowledge her presence, she exhales quietly, then bends to open her suitcase, pulling out a few things before heading into the bathroom.

During the entire time she’s in the shower, then getting ready, I keep myself occupied—replying to emails, reviewing a couple of new project proposals, forcing my focus onto words that blur together anyway.

For a while, it almost works. I manage to detach, to push everything into the background… Until the bathroom door opens.

The scent of her shower gel hits me like a punch.

Clean. Warm. Familiar.

Fuck.

I don’t even remember how long it’s been since I last had her, but apparently my body didn’t get the memo that it’s over. My cock reacts immediately, like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.

And the worst part?

She wouldn’t hesitate. She’d ask for a repeat without thinking twice.

The thought alone sends an intense, unwelcome pulse through me.

I keep typing on my phone as she moves around the room, placing a few things beside her luggage before heading toward the bed. Every step she takes is unhurried, measured in a way that feels almost intentional, every shift of fabric, every small movement dragging at something I’ve spent too long burying.

“What are you doing?” I ask, my voice flat, my eyes still fixed on the screen.

“What does it look like I’m doing, Ethan?” she shoots back, sarcasm sliding easily into place.

Right. The shower brought her back.

The nervous girl from earlier is gone, replaced by the version of Thalia that pushes, that challenges, that doesn’t step back even when she probably should.

“Looks like you think you can sleep in my bed,” I say, my tone hard, direct. “But I hope I’m wrong.”

She stops at the edge of the bed, on the opposite side, folding her arms over her chest, her gaze locking onto mine.

“Believe me, I’d rather be in any other bed right now,” she snaps, irritation threading through her voice. Then her tone steadies. “But I had no choice, as I said. Don’t worry, this bed’s big enough that you won’t even notice I’m in it.”

I ignore the first part, even though the idea of her in someone else’s bed sends a dark chill through my body.