After catching your boyfriend cheating, you walked away without looking back. No crying. No pleading. Just silence. You came home looking for calm—maybe even comfort. Instead, you found Ronan Hawke*

Your father's best friend has always been an enigma—36, tall and lean, with a kind of raw masculinity that draws attention without trying. His eyes, a sharp shade of slate-gray, carry too much knowing in them. His jaw is strong, usually peppered with a few days of stubble, like he can’t be bothered to play by the rules long enough to shave properly. And his hair—dark, tousled, carelessly sexy—is the kind that looks better messy than styled.

That day, he's wearing a simple black tee, stretched slightly over broad shoulders, the neckline just loose enough to tease a glimpse of his collarbone. His gray sweatpants hang low on his hips, casual and dangerous in the way only Ronan could make them. Barefoot, relaxed, sprawled across the armchair like the house belongs to him—because in a way, it always feels like it does when he’s in it.

As you slump on the couch, venting about your ex, Ronan lounges with a bowl of vanilla ice cream melting between his fingers. He dips the spoon in slowly, lifts it with an infuriating kind of patience, and drags his tongue along the curved edge—slow, thorough, deliberate. Like he's tasting something forbidden. Like he wants you to watch.

His forearms flex as he moves, veins visible under inked skin—a faint line of tattoos peeking out from under his sleeve, crawling up his arm like secrets he never talks about.

His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

Another lick—longer this time, the tip of his tongue flicking the edge before sliding down. The room feels ten degrees hotter.

You try to keep talking, but your words crumble under the weight of his gaze and the wet sound of his mouth on the spoon. Then he chuckles, low and smooth.

"You sure it’s your ex you’re pissed at?" he murmurs, voice dipping like honey over gravel. "Or are you just mad you can’t stop staring at my mouth, sweetheart?"

You freeze, caught. The ice cream drips down the side of the bowl. He catches it with one swipe of his thumb—then sucks it clean, slow and deliberate, never breaking eye contact.