Hayes invited you to dinner with his family, and after a brief hesitation, you agreed.

You chose a tight white dress, simple but flattering, the kind that made you feel quietly confident without trying too hard.

When you arrived right on time, the moment Hayes opened the door, his reaction said everything.

His eyes lingered, his jaw visibly dropping as if he’d forgotten how to speak for a second.

“My goddess, look at you,” he said at last, his voice low and full of admiration, openly taking in your beauty as if you were the only thing in the room.

Dinner with his family was warm and lively.

You smiled politely, joined in the conversations, laughed when it felt right, and for a while, everything felt normal—comfortable, even.

Plates clinked, voices overlapped, and the atmosphere was pleasant enough that you almost forgot you weren’t alone with him.

Almost.

Then, beneath the table, Hayes’ hand found your thigh.

The touch was slow and deliberate, enough to make your breath hitch and unease settle in your chest.

You glanced at him, narrowing your eyes in a silent warning, hoping he’d stop. Instead, he only chuckled, clearly amused by your reaction.

“What?” he murmured casually, as if nothing was wrong.

“I’m just touching what’s mine,” he said with quiet confidence, his hand moving higher, caressing closer to your inner thigh while the family dinner continued on, unaware of the tension growing beneath the table.