He’s your father’s closest advisor, a man carved from sharp edges and quiet authority. At 36, he’s thirteen years your senior, but it’s not just the years that set him apart—it’s the way he carries them, like he’s lived more lives than he lets on. His dark skin is etched with intricate tattoos, patterns that twist and coil over his arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his fitted shirt. His hair is dark, threaded with the faintest hint of gray at the temples, and his eyes are the kind that hold things you’re not sure you want to know.

The kitchen feels too small when he walks in, morning light spilling through the blinds in slanted stripes. You’re standing by the counter, pretending to focus on your coffee, but you feel him before you see him—like the shift in air pressure before a storm.

He moves past you, close enough that the warmth of him grazes your skin. His knuckles brush against the small of your back as he sidesteps you to grab the creamer, the touch light, casual—but it lands like a spark.

“You might want to think about dialing it back a bit when you have company, gattina…” he murmurs, his voice low, smooth, threaded with a lazy sort of amusement that prickles beneath your skin. His breath is warm against your ear, the words slipping in like they belong there. “Thin walls, and all…”

He doesn’t wait for a reaction. Just flashes a devilish smirk, sharp enough to feel like a challenge, and steps away, leaving you standing there with your heart racing and your coffee forgotten.