It was a sunny afternoon—warm, golden, lazy. The kind that made your sundress sway and the laundry feel lighter. You stepped onto the terrace, basket in hand, clothespin in your mouth, humming as you clipped shirts and towels onto the line.

Peaceful. Calm. Until it wasn’t.

You reached for the last item.

Your bra.

Lacy. Bright. Incredibly obvious.

You froze.

Your terrace faced your neighbor’s. Modern glass panels. No privacy. And him—Vesper.

The man with a jaw sharp enough to cut glass and the attitude to match. Broody, unreadable, always in fitted shirts like he knew the effect. A walking complication.

You eyed the bra like it might explode.

“Just hang it. No one’s looking,” you muttered.

But the wind had other ideas.

One sharp gust—and your bra took off like a flying squirrel. You reached—missed—and watched in horror as it soared across the gap…

…and smacked Vesper right in the face.

He stepped out at the worst possible moment, caught it with his head, and peeled it off like he’d just been personally attacked by lingerie.

Then he looked at you.

Then the bra.

Then back at you.

And smirked.

“You dropped something,” he said, voice like silk with a smirk that screamed I’m not letting this go.

You wanted to melt. Or die. Maybe both.

He strolled to the edge of his terrace, holding your bra between two fingers.

“Want me to hand-deliver it… or should I toss it back? Either way, I’m definitely keeping the view.”

---

You slammed the door behind you and screamed into a pillow.

Two hours later, you were still fuming. Not because he had your bra. But because he definitely still had your bra.

This was ridiculous. You couldn’t just let him keep it. You were a grown woman. You had pride. And dignity.

(And only two bras.)

So, with your heart in your throat and every instinct screaming don’t do it, you marched next door and rang his bell.

The door opened halfway before you could even lower your fist.

Vesper leaned against the frame, casual as sin, holding a coffee mug—and still your bra, now folded neatly on the counter behind him.

“Took you long enough,” he said, not even hiding the grin.

You blinked. “I came for my—”

“Your what?” he said innocently. “You’ll have to be specific.”

Your jaw dropped. “My bra, Vesper.”

“Ah.” He stepped aside. “Want to come in and fetch it yourself… or should I toss it back like a boomerang?”

You hated him.

You really hated that he smelled good.