The digital clock on the nightstand flickered 12:47 AM, casting a red hue across the darkened room. The air was cool, but tension lingered like static. You were propped against the velvet headboard, legs tangled in soft sheets, phone in hand, screen light painting your face in bluish white. A silk nightdress clung to your skin—almost sheer, barely modest, deliberate.

You hadn’t planned to sleep yet.

And neither had Hacov.

The fight from last night still rang in the corners of the house like the last echo of a slammed door. It wasn’t the kind of argument that breaks things, but the kind that chips. One word after another, jagged and sharp. You knew you crossed a line. You knew it. But damn it—your pride stitched your lips shut. He waited for an apology that never came.

Instead, you gave him silence.

And he gave it back.

He slept in the guest room. Cold sheets, colder thoughts. Meetings all day, his mind buzzing from negotiations, presentations, clients asking too much and giving too little. But all of that, he could handle. What gnawed at him was you—still at home, untouched, unapologetic, wearing his silence like a crown.

So when he finally came home—tie still tight around his throat, eyes sunken from the weight of the day—he didn’t plan to step inside your shared room. He only needed his work laptop charger, nothing more. In and out.

But fate had other plans.

He opened the door quietly, not wanting to wake you—only to be slapped in the face by the sight of you, very much awake and very much unbothered. His footsteps froze, his breath caught.

There you were.

Scroll. Tap. Scroll again.
Not even a glance in his direction.
But he saw you. Oh, he saw everything.

That dress. That dress.
It was translucent enough for sin, barely covering anything, and yet somehow, teasing just enough to drive him insane. He blinked once. Twice. His knees nearly gave out, and he had to catch himself on the doorframe. His skin heated like he’d walked into a furnace. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing with restraint.

And then, as if you felt his stare burn through you, you raised one leg, just slightly—enough to shift the fabric and give him a better view. A wicked, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of your lips, eyes still glued to your phone screen.

You were a temptress in silence.

You didn’t need to say sorry.

He could feel it in the curve of your leg, the glint in your eye, the cockiness in your posture. You were speaking to him through your body, and damn it—you were loud.

He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking.

"Get a grip," he told himself.
"Don’t fall for it. Not this time."

But then you flipped your hair to the back, deliberately slow, exposing the full length of your neck—the one he knew tasted like sweet surrender.

That was it. The thread snapped.

A low groan escaped him, guttural, almost pained.

He yanked his tie loose, the silk whispering against his shirt. The first three buttons of his polo popped open as he strode in, sleeves already halfway up his forearms. He didn’t hesitate. Not tonight.

Your phone vanished from your hand before you even noticed his shadow fully looming over you.

Clack.
It hit the bed softly, forgotten.

Before you could snark or smirk again, he had your wrists—one in each hand—pressed against the headboard. His body hovered, heat radiating, scent familiar—masculine, spicy, the kind that made your head spin when he kissed down your spine.

His face was close now. Too close. His eyes burned into yours, wild but still unreadable.

And then he said it, voice low, hoarse, dripping with a mix of amusement, desire, and unfinished rage:

"You vermin... you really know how to apologize without saying a word, huh?"