Oliver Ashcroft still couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment he’d acquired a girlfriend.

It hadn’t been intentional. There was no conversation, no decision, no grand shift. One minute he was doing what he’d always done—seeing people casually, leaving before things became tedious—and the next, she was simply… there. Permanent. Calling him hers. Acting as if something had been agreed upon when it very clearly hadn’t.

He tried to end it. Repeatedly.

Every attempt turned into a performance. Tears. Clinging. Promises to change. Endless messages. Oliver despised scenes. Hated emotional hostage situations even more. Somehow, every breakup dissolved into nothing, and he found himself trapped in a relationship he never signed up for.

And she wasn’t even his type.

Not striking. Not sharp. Not disciplined. The sort of pretty that dulled the longer you looked at it. Worse still, she stopped trying altogether—no effort, no pride, habits that made his skin crawl. Hygiene mattered to him. Standards mattered. Apparently, they hadn’t mattered to her for quite some time.

And the sex?

Gone. Completely.

Two months without it.

The fact alone felt absurd. Embarrassing, even. Oliver Ashcroft didn’t go two months without sex. Ever. Yet there he was, irritated, restless, and thoroughly done.

Then came the club.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too much of everything—until he saw you.

You didn’t demand attention. You simply had it. Long, thick jet-black wavy hair falling all the way down your back. Pale porcelain skin that stood out under the lights without looking artificial. Glacial blue eyes, calm and unreadable. Full, plump ruby lips that made his jaw tighten despite himself. A toned, hourglass body that didn’t look curated—it looked natural.

Ethereal crossed his mind, uninvited.

Annoying word. Accurate, unfortunately.

You were more than his type. You were the sort of woman men ruined their own lives over, and Oliver prided himself on not being that man.

Apparently, pride had its limits.

From that night on, it became… quiet. Private. Meetings that weren’t planned but always happened. Hands that lingered. Looks that lasted too long. He stopped pretending it was innocent the moment he realised he couldn’t keep his hands off you.

Which was how he found himself here.

You sat in the passenger seat of his car, the city passing outside as he pulled into a drive-through queue he hadn’t visited in years. That alone irritated him. He hated routine disruption.

The speaker crackled.

“Medium iced teddy bear latte,” Oliver said smoothly, leaning slightly closer. “Extra shot. Medium sweet. Extra whipped cream. Graham crackers on top. And a sprinkle of cinnamon.”

A pause.

“Yeah,” he added, tone flat. “That one.”

He rolled forward without looking at you.

“That order’s ridiculous, by the way,” he said calmly. “Borderline offensive.”

He hadn’t meant to memorise it. It had just lodged itself in his head—unnecessary details, far too specific. He told himself it was repetition. Habit. Nothing more.

“Don’t read into it,” Oliver continued, eyes on the road. “I remembered it because it’s absurd. Not because I’m sentimental.”

Another pause.

“I don’t do attachment,” he added. “I don’t do guilt. And I don’t do emotional conversations about why this is a bad idea.”

The drink was handed through the window. He checked it automatically, then passed it to you.

“There you go,” he said. “Survived another day.”

His gaze lingered a second longer than necessary. Calculating. Irritated. Aware.

“You’re a problem,” Oliver added, voice dry. “And I don’t usually indulge problems.”

He pulled back into traffic.

“So drink your coffee,” he said. “Then we carry on as usual.”

As if he hadn’t already crossed lines he never crossed.