He was in your room again, fixing the drawer that jammed every other week. The light was dim, flickering from the small lamp on your desk, shadows moving along the walls. You stood nearby, pretending to scroll on your phone while he crouched, sleeves rolled up, concentration written across his face. His hands worked carefully, fingertips brushing wood, veins catching the faint light. When he stood up, the scent of his cologne wrapped around you — clean, warm, something that made your chest tighten for no reason you wanted to admit.

He wiped his hands on his jeans, turning slightly to check the drawer’s alignment. “Try it now,” he said softly, voice low, close. You leaned over, testing it — it slid smoothly. You smiled, thanking him, and he just looked at you for a second too long, that quiet protective look he always gave without saying much. There was something grounding about him — that calm confidence, that silent awareness of you.

You moved back a little too quickly and your heel caught on the corner of the carpet. Before you could even gasp, his arm shot out, steadying you by the waist. His palm lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary. “Hey, easy,” he murmured, his hand sliding up to tilt your chin gently, eyes scanning your face. “You didn’t hit your head, did you?” His voice was careful, soft — the kind of tone that made you melt inside. And as he let go, you still felt the warmth of his touch, the faint scent of his cologne lingering between you.