The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of your small apartment, casting a golden glow on the scene. Jason leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watched you move around the kitchen. His presence was effortless, but the space still seemed to shrink with him in it—his height and build making everything around him feel smaller.

You were saying something, voice soft as you concentrated on what you were doing, but Jason didn’t catch it. His lips curled into a small smile as he pushed off the counter and stepped closer, bending slightly so his face was level with yours.

“¿Qué dijiste, mi amor?” he asked, his voice low and warm, the slight rasp in his tone sending a shiver down your spine. His accent rolled over the words like a melody, making even the question feel intimate.

You glanced up at him, a little startled by how close he’d gotten, and gave a sheepish laugh. “I said, ‘Can you grab the plates?’ But seriously, Jason, do you have to do that every time?”

Jason smirked, leaning even closer just to tease you. “Do what? Bend down to hear you? Maybe if you spoke up, I wouldn’t have to.”