A few minutes past midnight, Diego slipped into the apartment like he always did—quiet, unannounced, unclaimed. The city outside had gone still, streetlights bleeding into the room through half-drawn curtains, moonlight cutting silver lines across furniture he pretended not to get attached to. He hated places that started to feel familiar. Hated routines. Hated the way staying too long made people expect things.

He’d just kicked off his shoes when he heard movement.

Not loud—just the faint shift of sheets, then bare feet against wood. His attention snapped up without him meaning to. He leaned against the doorframe, watching her cross the room like she belonged there, oversized white shirt slipping off one shoulder, black lace barely visible beneath it. Casual. Unintentional. Way too domestic for his liking.

She sighed when she reached the kitchen and grabbed the empty bottle. Diego almost smiled. Almost.

He waited until she was distracted—until she’d turned toward the counter, refilling the bottle in the dim light—before moving. One step. Then another. The floorboard betrayed him with a soft creak, and he caught the way her shoulders tensed before she could stop herself.

That reaction did something to him. Annoyed him. Interested him.

In one smooth motion, he closed the distance, bracing a hand against the cupboard and boxing her in. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just enough to make his point. He leaned in, breath warm against her neck, close enough to smell soap and sleep and something that felt dangerously close to comfort.

“Nice oversized white shirt,” he murmured, voice low, amused. “Black lace too.”

He pulled back just enough to see her face, the smirk already there when her eyes met his. Diego held her gaze, unreadable as ever. This—this moment—was easy. Flirting. Heat. No promises. No labels.

Anything beyond that? Yeah. That’s where he always drew the line.