The Clumsy Advance

The quiet hum of my city apartment was shattered at eleven o'clock by the sharp, impatient buzz of the intercom.

I stood by the kitchen island, a cup of chamomile tea warming my palms, and froze. I didn't need to check the security camera to know who was standing down in the lobby. Ethan never called ahead when he wanted something; he simply showed up, expecting the doors to open and his world to bend to his schedule.

I set the cup down, taking a slow, steadying breath before pressing the wall release. A minute later, the quiet click of my front door lock sounded, and Ethan walked in.

He didn't look at me first. He tossed his leather briefcase onto my dining table, loosened his designer tie with a sharp yank, and kicked off his dress shoes in the entry hall. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight with the specific kind of bruised ego that usually followed a bad board meeting with his father.

"Bad day?" I asked smoothly, keeping my voice neutral as I leaned back against the kitchen counter.

"A disaster," Ethan muttered, walking straight toward me. The heavy smell of scotch and stale cigar smoke rolled off his suit jacket. "My father spent two hours tearing apart the quarterly projections. And Damon sat there the entire time, staring at me like I’m an amateur."

At the mention of Damon's name, a sudden, electric spark traveled down my spine. The memory of the wine cellar—of Damon's ruthless focus, his dark eyes, and the heavy, undeniable weight of his presence—flashed through my mind with sickening clarity.

Ethan didn't notice the sudden shift in my breathing. He closed the distance between us, reaching out to wrap his arms around my waist.

"I need a distraction," he murmured, his voice thick with self-pity as he leaned down, burying his face into the crook of my neck.

His hands rested on my hips. In the past, his touch had been something I tolerated—a mild, routine obligation of an arranged corporate union. But tonight, the moment his palms pressed through the fabric of my silk loungewear, a violent wave of physical repulsion surged through my entire body.

It was visceral. My stomach turned, and my skin recoiled as if I had touched hot iron. Every nerve ending in my body screamed in protest.

Ethan’s grip tightened, attempting to pull me flush against his chest, but I went completely rigid. His hands felt clumsy, careless, and heavy—devoid of the intense, possessive precision that Damon had stamped into my skin only days ago. Damon had ruined me. He had ruined my tolerance for mediocrity, tearing down the quiet detachment I had spent years building up around Ethan.

"Robin," Ethan muttered, leaning in to press his lips against my jawline. "Come on. I’ve had a hell of a night."

"Ethan, stop," I said, my voice sharper than I intended.

He paused, pulling back a few inches. His brow furrowed in genuine confusion, his hand lingering heavily on my waist. "What?"

I stepped backward, using the edge of the kitchen island to put physical distance between us. My heart was pounding against my ribs, driven not by desire, but by a desperate need to keep his hands off my skin. I couldn't let him touch me. The thought of letting Ethan lay a finger on me after what Damon had claimed felt like an unbearable violation of my own skin.

"I can't tonight," I said, keeping my hands folded tightly across my chest. "I have a terrible migraine."

Ethan stared at me, his eyes narrowing as his fragile pride took another hit. "A migraine? Right now? Robin, I barely see you during the week, and I'm stressed out."

"And I'm telling you I'm unwell," I replied, forcing my voice into a cold, steady register. "I've had a pounding headache since seven. I was just about to go to sleep."

"You were fine at lunch," he scoffed, crossing his arms and looking down at me with irritation. "You're always pulling this lately. Every time I touch you, you freeze up like an iceberg. What is your problem?"

"My problem is that I'm exhausted, Ethan," I lied smoothly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I'm not in the mood to be your stress-relief valve after a bad meeting with your dad."

The mention of his father struck the exact nerve I intended. Ethan’s face flushed red, his jaw working as he struggled to find a comeback. He hated being reminded of his failures, and he hated being turned down even more.

"Fine," Ethan snapped, grabbing his tie from the counter and shoving it into his coat pocket. "If you're going to be like this, I'm not staying here. I'll go back to my place."

"That's probably for the best," I said softly, not offering a single move to stop him.

He grabbed his briefcase off the table, casting one last dark, resentful glare in my direction before pulling open the front door. "Don't bother coming to the office tomorrow morning then. I won't be in the mood for small talk."

"Goodnight, Ethan."

The door slammed shut with a heavy, reverberating thud that echoed through the quiet apartment.

I stood frozen in the middle of my living room for a long minute, waiting for my rapid pulse to slow down. My skin was still prickling where his hands had rested on my waist.

I walked straight to the bathroom, turned the shower knob to hot, and stripped off my clothes. As the steam filled the room, I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror. There, just beneath the collar of my shirt line, was a faint, darkening mark left by Damon's mouth in the cellar.

I traced the mark with my index finger. The truth stared back at me in the glass, terrifying and absolute: Ethan was my fiancé on paper, but physically and instinctually, I was completely closed off to him. Damon had marked his territory, and my body had taken his side without asking for my permission.