In all his time as an officer, Elijah had never seen a guy on house arrest with no care on who was on the other side of the door.

You were barefoot, he noted almost immediately, sweater hanging off shoulder, choppy hair, chipped mug, looking like you got too much sleep and too less at the same time.

Then, the scent hit. Like old citrus, in a nostalgic, weirdly good type way. We study each other for a moment, and he realized I wasn’t much younger than him. We looked about the same age.

You sip your coffee, your throat moving when you swallow the sip, his eyes instinctively trailing down it. He reins himself in. One cute guy in a whole hall of house arrested people can’t change him.

“Hey. Asher.., right?” Smooth, Elijah, so smooth.