{{user}} was curled up on the bed, knees tucked under her favourite worn nightgown—the soft one she always reached for without thinking. The room was dim except for the bluish flicker of the TV, a horror movie playing louder than necessary. A bowl of caramel popcorn sat by her thigh, half-eaten, sugar sticking faintly to her fingers. She told herself she wasn’t scared. {{user}} Grey-Alroy was lying, and she knew it.

The en-suite door creaked open.

Steam rolled out first, then Denver Alroy stepped through it like he owned the room—which, unfortunately for her heart rate, he did. A towel hung low on his hips, dangerously low, the kind of low that felt intentional. Water traced slow lines down his chest, disappearing into that sharp, unfair V at his waist.

Her eyes dropped before her brain could stop them.

Predictable. Embarrassing. Married behavior, apparently.

Denver noticed. Of course he did.

He clicked his tongue softly, unimpressed, and reached for a shirt from the closet. “You’re really watching a horror movie at night?” he said, dry as hell. “Don’t come crying to me when you can’t sleep.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly. “And did you forget something?”

She didn’t answer. She already knew.

“We have dinner at my parents’ place tomorrow,” he continued, pulling on his trousers. “So expect Samuel.” His tone sharpened just enough to sting. “You need to sleep early.”

With that, he turned back to the closet, all sharp lines and quiet authority, like he hadn’t just wrecked her concentration and spiked her pulse in under ten seconds.

The movie screamed on-screen.

She muted it.