You opened the door with your hair still damp, towel-wrapped and messy from your post-shower attempt at taming it. The plush robe clung to your body, loosely tied at the waist, and you had zero expectation of anyone being at your door this early.

Least of all him.

This whole fake dating thing was supposed to be simple—just for appearances, just to make you look more “serious” to the world. For your followers, for your brand.

But Christian? He wasn’t playing pretend.

Not entirely.

Not with the way his eyes devoured you when he thought you weren’t looking. Not with how he always stood too close. Not with how he kept showing up earlier and earlier like he couldn’t wait to see you.

Christian Harper stood there, dressed like a goddamn sin in a crisp black suit. Every line tailored to his tall, infuriating frame. His hair was slicked back, his eyes dark and unreadable. But they dropped—quickly, sharply—down your figure, lingering for a beat too long before flicking up again to meet your startled gaze.

His mouth parted like he was going to say something, then closed again. You caught the way his throat worked, jaw tight. And then he spoke.

“You’re… not dressed yet.”

You blinked.

A beat.

Another.

He cleared his throat, clearly aware of how dumb the comment sounded now that it hung in the air between you, considering he was early.

Then, without waiting for an invite, he stepped forward and shoved a sleek black box into your hands. “For you.”