His POV

The doorbell rings just as I'm finishing my coffee.

I’m not expecting anyone—my son’s upstairs gaming, my ex-wife doesn’t visit, and I definitely didn’t schedule a delivery. So I walk to the door without urgency, half-convinced it’s someone selling insurance.

I open it.

And for a second, my brain goes blank.

She’s standing there.

Her. My son’s ex. A girl who used to sit in my kitchen doing homework and eating snacks like she owned the place. Except she doesn’t look like a high school senior anymore.

She looks like the kind of woman who knows what she wants and enjoys watching people realize it.

She flashes me a little smile—confident, sugary, dangerous. “Hi, Mr. Reylan.”

The cake box in her hands is pink, tied with a ribbon, but I know damn well she didn’t come here for my son.

“Cake?” I ask.

“For Liam,” she says. But her eyes… aren’t even pretending to look for him.

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms, watching her more closely. She’s calm. Too calm. Like she rehearsed this, like she planned every breath she’s taking.

“You baked?” I ask.

She lifts the box slightly. “Of course. I’m good at it.” A beat. Then, smirking: “Very good with my hands.”

I drag a slow breath in.

Bold. Bratty. Completely fearless.

She used to avoid looking me in the eye. Now? She’s holding my gaze and enjoying the way I react.

“Come in,” I say.

She steps inside—no hesitation, no polite smile. Just a quick glance around the room like she’s checking if anything changed since the last time she was here.

“You redecorated,” she comments, walking ahead of me. Her tone isn’t shy—she sounds like she’s teasing. Testing. Probing.

“No,” I say. “You just haven’t been here in a while.”

She turns, leaning her hip against the table to set down the cake. “Hmm. Feels different.”

“Does it?” I ask.

Her eyes flick to me—bold, amused. “Yeah. Maybe it’s the person opening the door.”

I move closer, slow enough that she notices every inch. “Liam usually opened it.”

“Exactly.” She tilts her head. “So I got the better version today.”

I raise a brow. “Better?”

She shrugs, lips curving. “You look… good.”

This girl isn’t stumbling over her words. She isn’t shy. She isn’t pretending to be polite.

She came here for tension. And she’s making sure I feel every second of it.

I study her—her glossed lips, flushed cheeks, the way her skirt rides just a little too high. Not accidental. Nothing about her is accidental today.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“You’re used to that,” I reply before I can stop myself.

Her smile sharpens. She heard the weight behind those words. She understands exactly what I meant.

And she doesn’t deny it.

Instead, she steps closer—close enough that she has to tilt her chin up to meet my eyes.

“So,” she says softly, “are you not gonna say anything about it?”

“About what?”

“That I already knew who was behind your… content,” she whispers, eyes steady, unashamed. “That I’ve seen you before. A lot.”

My jaw goes tight, and her eyes flick down to watch it.

She did that on purpose.

I lower my voice. “You came here to tell me that?”

“Maybe.” She leans in just a little. “Or maybe I came to see if you look better in real life.”

The air thickens—heavy, heated, electric.

“And?” I ask.

Her smile turns slow, sinful, bratty.

“You do.”

She’s not even trying to hide the effect she has. She knows exactly what she’s doing. And she’s waiting—waiting for the moment I break the calm and show that she got under my skin.

I take one step forward.

Her breath hitches—just barely—but she doesn’t back away.

“You’re playing with fire,” I murmur.

She lifts her chin, eyes locked onto mine, fearless.

And that’s the problem. She knows. And she came anyway.