Elves'
Kane gently pulled back after a few moments of kissing, probably because he'd noticed my body had gone completely still.
I realized, belatedly, that I'd been holding my breath the entire time and the moment he drew back, I exhaled shakily, the breath rushing out of me all at once. Typical me: when I get overstimulated, my brain latches onto one input so intensely that everything else—like oxygen—becomes optional.
He steadied me by the shoulders, concern flickering across his face, though his lips curved with quiet amusement.
"Oops," I mouthed, trying for a smile that came out more like an apology.
He chuckled, soft and low, then reached out to ruffle my hair. The gesture startled me—unscripted touch always does—but there was no threat in it. Just warmth.
"Come on," he said gently, guiding me toward the bed.
I sat down obediently, my mind still trying to catalog every physical sensation—the brush of his hand, the shift in air, the faint scent of soap clinging to him.
"I'll sleep in the living room," he continued, his tone calm and careful. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to wake me, okay?"
I nodded, though something about the idea unsettled me.
The silence that followed was too heavy, too final. Before I could stop myself, my hand shot out, catching the hem of his shirt.
He froze and turned, brows slightly raised—patient, but questioning.
"Can you... stay in the room with me?" I asked quietly, the words tumbling out before I could analyze them. My gaze stayed fixed on the floor; eye contact felt impossible. "Just until I fall asleep."
The pause that followed stretched long enough for regret to bloom.
I braced myself for rejection—for the familiar misunderstanding that usually came after I asked for something I didn't know how to explain. But instead of leaving, he crossed to the other side of the bed and sat down. The mattress dipped under his weight. He leaned back against the headboard and extended a hand toward me.
"Come here," he murmured.
I lifted my gaze, searching his expression for signs of hesitation, but found none. Carefully—mechanically at first—I scooted closer and placed my hand in his. He guided me down until my head rested on his lap.
It took a few seconds for my body to accept the contact, to stop reading it as danger. But once I adjusted, the steady rhythm of his breathing anchored me. For the first time that night, the noise in my head began to quiet.
"Sleep now. I'm not going anywhere until you do," he murmured, his deep voice softened by warmth.
I looked up at him, but his eyes were already closed, his face relaxed, his usual sharpness replaced by calm. The contrast between his cold aura and this quiet tenderness made my chest tighten.
Taking his words to heart, I closed my eyes and let the steady rhythm of his breathing anchor me. The sound was slow, deliberate—safe. Bit by bit, my thoughts quieted, and I drifted into sleep, cocooned in the stillness of his presence.
I have a routine that I follow religiously—an exact structure I rarely deviate from. The only exception is when a scheduling conflict arises, and even then, it must be discussed at least a week in advance. Sudden changes throw me off balance, and Josh knows this; that's why he personally manages my schedule.
My day always begins at seven sharp. Fatigue isn't a valid excuse for deviation—structure keeps me grounded.
After a shower (seven to seven-thirty), I eat breakfast while reviewing a script. The familiarity of it—coffee to the right, highlighter to the left—helps my brain switch into focus mode.
Then comes my therapy session. One hour. Always the same room, same chair, same lighting. Predictability helps me think clearly.
Afterward, I head to the gym I chose after an exhaustive process of elimination—quiet atmosphere, consistent staff, secure parking, and proper ventilation. Two to three hours of training under the guidance of my instructor of five years. No surprises, no distractions.
Lunch follows at my favorite Italian restaurant—the only one that meets all my sensory requirements: dim lighting, minimal noise, and tables spaced far enough apart to breathe.
Then it's an hour with my speech coach for articulation drills, followed by three hours with my acting coach in the afternoon.
This routine isn't just habit—it's the framework that keeps my mind orderly and my craft sharp. Every repetition, every pattern, is a step toward excellence.
That morning was no different.
At precisely seven, my alarm blared—a sound engineered to demand obedience—and I jolted awake. Groggy but functional, I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, and headed toward the bathroom. My body moved on autopilot; mornings are muscle memory by now.
But the moment I reached the doorway, I froze.
Something was not right.
When I looked up, I saw someone in the shower—standing under the running water.
Kane.
A completely naked Kane.
For a few stunned seconds, my brain forgot how to function. My eyes—traitorous and uncooperative—traveled down of their own accord: his face, his neck, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the defined lines of his abdomen... and then stopped on his—
Oh.
I blinked rapidly, my neurons staging a full system error.
It took several painfully long seconds for my brain to catch up to what my eyes had just processed. And when it did, my face went hot enough to power the city grid.
My breath hitched, my thoughts scrambled, and I was exactly one heartbeat away from either screaming or spontaneously combusting.
Kane must have sensed the incoming chaos because, in a split second, he closed the short distance between us and pressed a hand gently over my mouth.
"Don't scream," he said softly, his deep voice calm but commanding.
His dark eyes locked onto mine, steady and unflinching.
I blinked—once, twice—then nodded rapidly to show I understood, desperate for him to remove his hand so I could breathe properly again.
The moment he let go, I spun on my heel and bolted out of the bathroom, retreating straight into my bedroom. I slammed the door, locked it, and collapsed face-first onto my bed, my entire body radiating embarrassment.
I grabbed the nearest pillow and screamed into it—muffled but heartfelt.
"I just saw his... manhood," I gasped, words tumbling out as my brain replayed the image in high definition.
My cheeks burned hotter.
My precious routine was obliterated—completely derailed by one naked man with zero sense of boundaries. My mind couldn't reset; it could only loop that scene like a cursed reel.
Kane. Shower. Naked. Every pixel burned into my retinas.
"Stop it, Elves!" I hissed, sitting up and smacking my cheeks lightly, as if that would reboot my brain.
I tried counting sheep—slowly, methodically—but by sheep number twenty, all I could picture was him. By thirty, I gave up entirely.
My face was on fire, my pulse was ridiculous, and for reasons I refused to analyze, the room suddenly felt much too warm.
Once my heartbeat finally settled into something resembling normal, the weight of my disrupted routine hit me like a delayed explosion. Frustration welled up fast—sharp, disproportionate, familiar. My throat tightened, and before I knew it, my eyes burned with angry tears.
My morning structure—my foundation—had been thrown completely off balance. And in my mind, there was only one culprit.
Kane.
If he had just told me he was going to use the shower first, I could've adjusted my entire routine accordingly. I had contingency plans for everything—except him.
Fueled by indignation and the fragile logic of someone whose routine had just been vandalized, I marched out of my room.
I found him in the kitchen, standing by the stove, the picture of calm concentration. His dark hair was still damp, his movements deliberate, precise. He looked utterly unbothered—like a man existing in a parallel dimension where chaos didn't exist.
Meanwhile, I was a walking earthquake.
But as I stood there watching him, my therapist's voice resurfaced in my mind: When your routine is disrupted, pause. Evaluate what caused it. Understand the situation before reacting.
So I paused.
And I realized—Kane hadn't done this on purpose. He wasn't the villain in my morning meltdown. He was here because I had asked him to stay. Because his presence made me feel safe.
And just like me, he probably needed a shower to start his day—not to sabotage mine.
He's here for me, I reminded myself, inhaling deeply, counting the breath the way my therapist taught me. He's not the enemy. He's just Kane.
The storm inside me began to quiet—slowly, but surely.
Kane turned around the moment he sensed me. Our eyes met, and he greeted me with that warm, effortlessly disarming smile—the kind that made it hard to stay irritated, no matter how much I wanted to.
I managed a small smile in return, though my cheeks immediately betrayed me, heating at the memory of the morning's... visual incident.
"Do you like pancakes?" he asked casually, spatula in hand, as if nothing utterly mortifying had happened between us just hours ago.
I nodded quickly, keeping my mouth shut. Words were dangerous right now—especially the kind that might slip out without my consent, like you look unfairly good when wet.
No, absolutely not. That thought was getting locked in a mental vault. Permanently.
With as much composure as I could fake, I walked past him toward the bathroom, keeping my gaze fixed firmly ahead. Once inside, I locked the door and leaned against it, inhaling deeply until the air stopped catching in my chest.
A few more measured breaths. Reset.
Then I stripped, stepped under the shower, and let the water run over me—hot, steady, rhythmic. Normally, it helped me think. Normally, it resets my mind.
But no matter how hard I tried to focus on the sensation—the warmth, the sound, the pattern of droplets against tile—my thoughts kept circling back to him. To Kane. To that calm, quiet strength. To the way he had looked at me this morning like nothing about the situation had been strange.
The distraction proved costly. My foot slid on the slick floor the moment I stepped, and before I could brace myself, I landed hard on my back. A sharp, searing pain shot through my ankle and hips, and a startled cry tore from my throat before I could stop it.
Moments later, the bathroom door burst open—loud enough to make me briefly wonder how much force it took to break a lock like that. Kane appeared almost instantly, his expression tight with alarm.
Before I could even form words, he was beside me, one strong arm sliding under my shoulder as he carefully helped me up. His movements were steady, controlled—efficient in a way that made it clear panic wasn't part of his vocabulary.
Without a word, he grabbed my towel from the rack, wrapped it securely around my waist, and guided me out of the bathroom. His eyes flicked downward once—very quickly—before darting back to my face. That split second of contact sent heat rushing through me, and I swallowed hard, pretending not to notice.
He led me to the living room, his hand never leaving my back, the quiet weight of his touch both grounding and protective. When we reached the sofa, he eased me down gently, then crouched in front of me with focused precision.
He lifted my injured ankle, resting it on his lap, and examined it with careful, deliberate movements. His touch was firm but cautious as he tested the joint.
"Does this hurt?" he asked, his deep voice laced with concern as he rotated my ankle slightly to the left.
A sharp bolt of pain shot through me, and I yelped before I could stop myself.
He froze instantly.
"Sorry," he murmured, his brows furrowing.
I managed a small, strained smile.
"It's... bearable," I said, though my voice betrayed the lie.
He nodded once, gently setting my ankle on the coffee table before standing.
"Wait here," he said softly, his gaze steady on mine.
All I could do was nod, watching him stride toward the kitchen—efficient, composed, and every bit the quiet force of nature he always was.
Left alone, my gaze drifted around the living room until it landed on the wall clock.
7:45 a.m.
Forty-five minutes behind schedule.
The sight made my stomach drop. Disappointment, frustration, and sadness all hit at once—a flood of emotion that felt too big for my chest. I should have been eating breakfast by now, checking my notes, starting my carefully planned day. Instead, I was stranded on the sofa, injured and off-course.
Helplessness settled over me like a heavy blanket. My throat tightened, and before I could stop myself, silent tears began slipping down my cheeks. I hated crying—it felt messy, unpredictable—but my mind was still trying and failing to reconcile the disruption.
I didn't even notice Kane return until the cushion beside me dipped slightly under his weight. He didn't speak. He didn't ask questions. He just sat there, close enough for me to feel the quiet steadiness of his presence.
He didn't try to fix it or tell me to stop crying. He simply stayed—still, patient, listening to the sound of my uneven breathing.
It felt like his silence was saying, It's okay to cry.
And somehow, that meant more than anything he could have said out loud.
Once my breathing steadied, Kane shifted to face me.
Without saying a word, he carefully lifted my injured ankle from the coffee table, rested it on a pillow across his lap, and pressed an ice pack against the swollen skin. His movements were deliberate—measured in that way he always was, like everything he did came with purpose.
I found myself staring at his face, studying the quiet focus in his expression. Gratitude rose in my chest before I could stop it.
"Thank you, Kane," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.
He looked up and met my eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"You don't have to thank me," he said softly, his tone low and sincere.
Something in me loosened at that. His calmness had a way of disarming me—of making honesty feel safe.
"I'm sorry for being difficult," I confessed, forcing the words past the lump in my throat. "It's just... I have a strict routine. I don't deviate from it unless I absolutely have to. Every change has to be planned in advance, because if something disrupts it, I—" I paused, trying to find the right words. "I lose my footing. Everything feels wrong. It feels like I've failed myself."
I took a shaky breath.
"And this morning... everything was thrown off. And then you—" My voice faltered. "You make me feel so... disoriented. And I don't know how to process that."
He stayed silent, listening—really listening—without interrupting or trying to fix it. When a tear slipped down my cheek, his hand came up to wipe it away with gentle precision. His smile was small but steady, the kind that anchored instead of distracted.
"Is there anything I can do," he asked quietly, "to help you get back on track?"
His tone was calm, sincere—like a promise he fully intended to keep.
I smiled at him, genuinely grateful for his calm and willingness to help. But when my eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, a fresh wave of panic surged through me.
"I–I need to get ready," I blurted, my voice rising. "I'm supposed to meet my therapist soon, and if I don't hurry, I'll be late!"
Without thinking, I pushed myself up—only for a sharp, stabbing pain to shoot through my ankle. I gasped and dropped back onto the sofa, wincing and pouting at my own carelessness.
Kane's lips twitched in amusement. He reached over, ruffled my hair lightly—a gesture that would've annoyed me from anyone else—and stood.
"Where's your planner?" he asked, that disarming half-smile softening the edge of my panic.
I blinked at him, confused. "Why do you need it?"
"So I can check your schedule," he replied matter-of-factly, his tone calm but purposeful. "You can't move around with that ankle, so let me fix it for you. I'll reschedule whatever needs rescheduling."
The simplicity of his answer—and the certainty in his voice—made my chest tighten. He wasn't just offering to help; he'd already decided to.
But still, I hesitated, biting my lip.
My planner wasn't just a schedule—it was a chronicle. A detailed record of my days, thoughts, and... people. Including him. Especially him.
But with him watching me, concern etched across his face, resistance felt childish.
"It's in my room," I admitted reluctantly. "On the bedside table."
He nodded, completely unaware of the internal alarm bells blaring in my head, and turned toward my room to retrieve it.
I sank back into the sofa, silently praying he wouldn't find the page where I'd described him in excruciating detail.
Kane returned to the sofa and sat beside me, flipping through the pages of my planner with the kind of focus that made my nerves spike.
For a moment, he didn't say anything. His eyes moved slowly over the entries, calm and deliberate—until they stopped. I saw the faint twitch at the corner of his lips, the kind that hinted at amusement he was trying (and failing) to hide.
Oh no. He'd found that page.
What exactly had I written again? Something about his "dark, commanding eyes that could pierce through my soul"? Or was it his "downturned smile that fascinated me"? Maybe even the line about how his smirks "should be illegal"?
Heat surged up my neck, flooding my face. I wanted to snatch the planner out of his hands and bury it under ten feet of concrete, but his quiet composure kept me rooted in place. There was something about his steadiness that made rash decisions feel impossible.
After another moment of silent torment, he pulled out his phone, and—without hesitation—began calling the names listed in it.
I sat there frozen as he calmly explained my situation to each person—how I'd injured my ankle, how I couldn't travel easily—and asked if they could either reschedule or come to my place instead. His tone was polite yet commanding, confident without being pushy. He even offered to pick them up himself if it made things easier.
Watching him like that—focused, capable, completely in control—something shifted quietly inside me.
When I first met Kane, I couldn't have imagined feeling this at ease around him. But now, sitting here beside him as he helped me rebuild the structure of my day, I realized it wasn't just comfort anymore. I was starting to rely on him—and that realization both warmed and unsettled me in equal measure.
When he finished making the calls, Kane turned to me with a small, satisfied smile.
"Some of them agreed to come here," he said calmly. "Your therapist, though—she's on vacation this week. Look."
He turned the planner toward me, pointing at the note I had somehow missed entirely.
Embarrassment crashed over me like a wave.
"So... my earlier meltdown was completely unnecessary," I muttered, lowering my head, mortified by my own oversight.
He reached out, gently tilting my chin upward with his finger until our eyes met. His touch was light but grounding.
"Anyone can miss something in their schedule—even me," he said softly, that deep voice of his carrying both reassurance and authority. "You don't have to be perfect every second of the day, Elves."
His words—simple, unforced—eased the tightness in my chest.
I managed a small smile.
Satisfied, he straightened and extended his hand toward me, palm up, waiting.
"Your first appointment isn't until ten," he said, his tone warm but firm. "Come on. Let's have breakfast."
The quiet certainty in his voice made it sound less like a suggestion and more like an anchor.
"Okay," I said as I slipped my hand into his.
His grip was steady—unshakably so—and I let him guide me to the dining table, matching his calm rhythm with my still-wobbly steps.
After breakfast, Kane helped me back to my room and guided me gently to sit on the edge of the bed.
"What do you plan to wear?" he asked casually, his deep voice steady as his eyes wandered across the room, taking in the space with quiet curiosity.
I hesitated. The thought of him going through my closet made my stomach twist. What if he thought it was strange—too rigid, too... me?
But when he lifted an eyebrow in that calm, challenging way of his, I sighed in surrender.
There's no point hiding anything from him anymore.
"Today's Monday," I said softly, my gaze dropping to the floor. "Monday's outfit is the first on the far left."
He nodded without comment and walked to the closet. I held my breath as he opened the door, bracing for the look—confusion, amusement, maybe quiet judgment.
It never came.
Instead, he just stared for a moment, then smiled faintly. My clothes were arranged in precise order—each day's outfit separated, color-coordinated, and perfectly aligned. A system that made sense to me, one that kept the world from feeling chaotic.
"I might need to ask you to reorganize my closet someday," he said, his tone light and sincere.
The unexpected compliment hit harder than I'd anticipated. My chest warmed, and my heart gave a small, involuntary flutter.
Coming from anyone else, it would've sounded like a joke. But from him—it felt like understanding.
He reached for the outfit and lifted it from the hanger with surprising care—like he understood the unspoken rule that everything in my closet had its place. But when he turned to hand it to me, he froze. Just for a second. His gaze flicked downward before meeting mine again.
That's when I realized.
I was still half-naked.
Heat rushed up my neck and into my ears. I snatched the duvet from the bed and wrapped it tightly around my shoulders, gripping it like a shield.
"Why hide your sexy body?" he teased lightly, his voice a mix of mischief and calm confidence.
"You—you should've told me!" I sputtered, mortified.
He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and stepped closer, stopping just in front of me.
"Do you need help?" he asked quietly, his gaze dipping—just briefly—before returning to my face.
"No," I said quickly, my words tripping over each other. "Please leave. I—I need privacy to change."
My voice wavered, my cheeks burning. But my mind betrayed me instantly, conjuring thoughts of what it might feel like if he didn't leave—if he actually helped me dress. The thought alone sent another wave of warmth crashing through me.
"Right. Of course," he said softly.
He turned without argument and walked toward the door, closing it gently behind him.
I exhaled shakily, realizing I'd been holding my breath the entire time. A small, involuntary smile tugged at my lips.
His restraint, his quiet thoughtfulness—everything about him felt dangerously comforting.
And without meaning to, I could feel it happening again. That subtle, slow pull toward him—like gravity pretending to be kindness.