ARSHILA — POV
"Arshila," he says.
I stop.
"Wait for me in the kitchen," he adds. "Let's have breakfast together."
I freeze again.
Breakfast.
Together.
My brain does that buffering thing like an old laptop about to give up on life.
What the hell is happening today?
I nod once because words feel risky right now and turn away before my face betrays me. I take the stairs slower this time. Too aware of my body. Too aware of the night that technically didn't happen but absolutely did.
The living room greets me first.
Too quiet. Too big. Too much space to think.
I hover like an idiot for a second, then perch on the edge of the couch, hands clasped, foot bouncing. My skin still remembers his bed. Traitorous memory. My pulse hasn't gotten the memo that it's morning and we're supposed to be normal.
Minutes pass.
I hear him before I see him.
Footsteps. Calm. Unrushed.
Then he's there.
Top of the stairs.
Black t-shirt. Black sweatpants. Hair still damp. Sleeves hugging his arms like they were designed specifically to make me weak. He looks… domestic. Dangerous. Unfair.
Our eyes meet.
Electric.
Immediate.
I look away so fast I almost give myself whiplash.
Nope. Absolutely not.
I stand and head for the dining table like it's a mission. A goal. A distraction. He follows, close enough that I can feel him without touching. Heat rolls off him. My shoulders tense automatically.
I sit.
He sits across from me.
The staff moves quietly around us, setting things down, pretending not to notice the weird tension humming in the air like a live wire. I grab my glass of water first thing.
Sip.
Too fast.
My eyes betray me.
They slide. Down. Traitorously slow.
His throat.
That stupid Adam's apple.
He takes a sip of coffee and it moves. Up. Down.
My own throat tightens.
Why is that hot.
Why is my brain like this.
I swallow hard, then my gaze drifts again because apparently I've lost all control. Collarbone. Just visible where his shirt hangs loose. A glimpse of skin that should not be doing this much damage.
My mind immediately goes somewhere it shouldn't.
Like how that skin would feel under my mouth. How warm. How firm. How I'd probably leave marks just to see if he'd react or pretend he's still composed. How unfair it is that he gets to sit there like this, fully clothed, drinking coffee, while my brain is writing illegal fanfiction.
Get it together.
God—no. Stop. Don't even.
I force my eyes away.
Too late.
He smirks.
Not big. Not obvious. Just enough to say I know exactly what you were doing.
My jaw tightens.
"Coffee?" he asks casually.
His voice should not sound like that this early in the morning. Low. Smooth. Still a little rough around the edges.
"I'm good," I say too quickly.
He hums. Takes another sip.
That damn throat moves again.
I glare at my plate like it personally offended me.
"This is awkward," I mutter.
"Is it?" he replies, amused.
"Yes," I snap, then pause. "No. Maybe. I don't know."
He leans back slightly. Relaxed. Confident. Like he didn't just crawl into my head and rearrange the furniture.
"You slept well," he says.
Statement. Not a question.
I stab at a piece of fruit harder than necessary. "You should stop saying things like that."
"Like what?"
"Things that imply I chose to sleep in your bed."
His eyes soften just a fraction. Dangerous territory.
"You did choose," he says quietly. "Even if you don't remember choosing."
Heat crawls up my neck.
I hate that he's right.
I hate more that part of me doesn't regret it.
Silence stretches again, thick and loaded. I risk a glance up.
He's watching me.
Not hungry. Not rushed.
Just… present.
And somehow that's worse than anything else.
I look away before my thoughts get any filthier.
Too late for my heart though.
It's already doing stupid things.
I clear my throat.
"So," I say, staring very hard at my plate like it owes me answers. "Where did you go yesterday?"
His cup pauses mid-air.
Not freezes.
Pauses.
That's worse.
Seconds tick by. One. Two. Three. Long enough for my brain to start inventing crime documentaries.
"To see someone," he says finally.
Casual. Too casual.
My eyes snap up. "Someone who?"
He meets my gaze this time. Holds it. Unblinking. Calm in that annoying way that feels like a locked door.
"Someone you don't know."
That's it.
No explanation. No softening. Just that.
My jaw tightens. Of course it's that. Of course it's vague and controlled and mildly infuriating.
"Helpful," I mutter.
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smile. A warning.
I shift in my chair, restless, legs stretching out without me really thinking about it.
And then—
Fuck.
My foot brushes his calf.
Solid. Warm. Muscle.
Real.
My entire body short-circuits.
He goes still.
Not jerking away. Not reacting outwardly at all. Just… still. Like a predator choosing patience.
"Oh—shit—sorry," I blurt, yanking my leg back like I touched fire.
He exhales slowly through his nose.
"It's fine," he says.
His voice drops a notch.
Too low. Too controlled.
"Doesn't feel like an accident," he adds.
My mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"I literally just stretched," I snap. "This chair is attacking me."
"Mhm," he murmurs, eyes dipping briefly to my legs before dragging back up. "Your chair seems dangerous."
Heat flares in my stomach. Annoyance. Awareness. Something else I refuse to name.
I cross my legs sharply. Armor on.
"Don't read into it," I say.
"I don't have to," he replies. "Your body does enough talking."
I choke on air.
"Excuse me?"
He finally smiles properly. Slow. Lazy. Infuriating.
"You heard me."
Silence drops again, thick and buzzing. My brain is screaming. My heart is doing parkour. I grab my fork just to have something to do with my hands.
He breaks the quiet first.
"So," he says, glancing at my outfit. "No shorts today?"
I glare. "Are you monitoring my wardrobe now?"
"Just observing patterns," he says. "Yesterday was… bold."
I scoff. "They're just shorts."
"They were not just shorts," he says calmly.
My cheeks heat despite myself. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he replies, lifting his cup again, "you slept in my bed."
I freeze.
Touché, asshole.
I look away, fuming, embarrassed, unreasonably flustered. Seconds pass. My pulse settles just enough for a thought to sneak in. A stupid one. A persistent one.
"Zayan?" I say.
He hums around his glass.
"Do you have a cat?"
The reaction is immediate.
He chokes.
Full on coughs, water splashing back into the glass as he bends forward slightly, hand gripping the table. It's not dramatic but it's definitely real.
"What?" he rasps.
I blink. Once. Twice.
"That's not a funny question," I add defensively. "I heard a meow last night."
He straightens slowly, wiping his mouth, eyes sharp now. Studying me like I just flipped the board on a game he was winning.
"You heard a what?"
"A meow," I repeat. "Like. A cat. A small demon with fur."
He stares.
Long.
Unreadable.
The room feels tighter all of a sudden.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
____________________________
ZAYAN — POV
Fuck.
Did I get caught??