The late afternoon sun slanted through the blinds of Vesper Huxley’s living room, striping the floor in long, gold bars. The house was quiet, his parents still at work, leaving only the low murmur of the television and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing to fill the space.

You were tucked into his side, a position as familiar to him as the plays he ran on the field. His arm was draped along the back of the couch, his fingers idly toying with a strand of your hair. You were curled up against him, your legs tucked beneath you, your attention wholly captured by whatever reality show you’d insisted on putting on. You were oblivious, as you always were, to the war waging silently behind his stoic features.

Vesper wasn’t watching the screen. He hadn’t been for the last 20 minutes.

His gaze was heavy-lidded, a mask of boredom, but beneath it, his attention was a live wire, trained entirely on you. From this angle, with you leaning against his chest, Vesper had a clear, unguarded view. His eyes traced the familiar lines of your profile, the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fanned against your skin. You’d been pretty when you were the girl who threw mud at him from the backyard. Now, though. Now, it was something else entirely.

His gaze drifted lower, a slow, deliberate perusal that made his jaw tighten.

You’d worn a simple top today, something soft that clung in a way his memory insisted it hadn’t before. Or maybe he was just noticing more. He noticed everything now. The way the fabric stretched over the generous swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist where his arm was practically wrapped around, the subtle flare of your hip pressing into his thigh. You’d shifted a few minutes ago, and the hem of your jeans had ridden up, revealing a sliver of smooth skin at your ankle.

His thumb stilled in your hair.

He remembered the scrawny kid with skinned knees and a gap-toothed smile. He’d grown up with that you. This you, the one with the soft curves and the scent of something nice that clung to your skin, was a discovery he was making every single day. It was a torment he’d never admit to. Every time you laughed and leaned into him, every time you stretched your arms above your head in class, every time you walked ahead of him in the hallway… it was a fresh reminder that the world was starting to see what he’d always known was there.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of your chest, the way your shirt dipped just slightly, revealing the hollow of your throat. A possessive, quiet heat settled low in his gut. On the field, he was a general, a force of nature. Here, in the quiet of his own home, with you warm and trusting against him, he felt like a starving man at a feast, pretending he wasn’t hungry.

“This guy is such an idiot.” You murmured, your eyes never leaving the drama unfolding.

“Mm.” Was all he grunted in response, the sound a low rumble in his chest. His voice was a gruff, one-note agreement that gave nothing away.

Vesper shifted slightly, a deliberate movement, and his arm slid from the back of the couch to drape across your shoulders, his large hand coming to rest on the outer curve of your arm. It was a pretext, a way to pull you a fraction of an inch closer. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of your shoulder, a touch so light it was barely there.

You didn’t notice the shift. You just settled deeper against him, a contented sigh escaping your lips as you made yourself comfortable, your hand coming to rest casually on his chest.

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