GUEST UNDER HER ROOF

Olivia's Pov 

Ethan carried Xander’s duffel bag like it weighed nothing, his skates clanking against the strap as he pushed the guest room door open.

“See? Perfect fit,” Ethan said proudly, dropping the bag by the bed. “You’ll be comfortable here, man.”

Xander leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, grin lazy. “Comfortable? Sure. But I was expecting silk sheets. Maybe a hot tub.”

“You’re lucky you’re not still in the hospital,” I said, standing stiffly behind them. My arms were folded, my lips pressed thin.

Xander looked at me with that infuriating smirk. “This is better. My favorite doctor makes house calls.”

“Stop calling me that,” I muttered.

“But you are my doctor.” He shrugged. “What should I call you? Nurse? Caretaker? Warden?”

“Warden fits,” I said flatly.

Ethan laughed. “Careful, bro. She’ll ground you.”

“She already has,” Xander shot back, shifting his weight to his good leg. “She said I can’t move, can’t skate, can’t live.”

“I said you can’t damage your knee more than it already is,” I corrected, trying not to look at how broad his shoulders filled the doorway.

“Same thing,” he said, eyes gleaming.

Ethan snorted. “You’ll survive. Mom doesn’t mess around with injuries.”

“Trust me, I’ve noticed.” Xander glanced at me again, voice dropping just enough to make my stomach flip. “She’s very… thorough.”

I cleared my throat and stepped back. “Dinner’s at seven. Don’t expect anything fancy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Though I do prefer breakfast in bed.”

“Alexander,” I snapped, heat rising in my face.

“What?” He lifted both hands innocently. “I’m injured. Isn’t that part of the care package?”

Ethan shook his head, laughing as he patted Xander’s back. “You’re insane.”

“Don’t encourage him,” I warned, glaring at both of them.

Ethan just grinned. “This is going to be fun.”

Fun. That wasn’t the word I’d use.

By nine o’clock, the house was quiet. Ethan was in his room finishing homework for a training course, and Xander was supposed to be resting. I should have been relieved. Instead, I found myself standing in the hallway, staring at the closed guest room door like it was radioactive.

He’s just another patient, I told myself. You’ve treated dozens. You can handle this.

I turned to leave when muffled voices drifted from behind the door. Not one voice — two.

I paused.

Xander’s tone was clipped, almost cold. “No, Cassandra. I told you, it’s not that serious.”

Cassandra.

His fiancée.

I edged closer without meaning to, guilt gnawing even as my feet betrayed me.

“I don’t care what the tabloids say,” he continued, voice sharper now. “I’m not giving a statement tonight. I just got out of treatment.”

A pause. Then his voice again, lower, almost bitter. “Of course you care how it looks. That’s all you ever care about.”

My chest tightened.

“No, don’t send someone over. I don’t need a stylist, Cassandra, I need.....” He broke off, then gave a harsh laugh. “Never mind. Forget it.”

Silence, then the sound of the phone clicking shut.

I stood frozen in the hallway, heart pounding. That hadn’t been a conversation between two people in love. That had been… business. Ice-cold, empty. And the way his voice had cracked at the end he was frustrated, lonely, maybe even broken.

I should have walked away. I should have gone to my room and shut the door. Instead, I stayed there a beat longer, listening to the silence behind his.

Then I forced myself down the hall, pulse racing like I’d just committed a crime.

It was close to midnight when I found him again. I couldn’t sleep — my mind kept replaying that phone call. So I went to the kitchen for tea, hoping to calm down.

And there he was.

Standing in front of my fridge. Shirtless.

“Are you kidding me?” I hissed, clutching the counter.

He turned, a carton of orange juice in one hand, a slice of leftover pizza in the other. His bare chest was bronzed and cut, muscles shifting as he leaned against the fridge. His smirk was instant.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said casually. “Your fridge was calling my name.”

“Put a shirt on,” I demanded.

“Why? Embarrassed?” He took a slow bite of pizza, eyes never leaving mine. “Or distracted?”

I gritted my teeth. “Both.”

He grinned. “Good to know.”

“Xander, this is my house. My son’s upstairs. Show some respect.”

“Relax, Doc. I’m just grabbing a midnight snack.” He lifted the juice carton. “Want some?”

“Not after your mouth’s been on it.”

“That’s what you’re worried about?” His grin widened. “Didn’t think you were squeamish.”

“God, you’re impossible,” I muttered, reaching for a mug.

He watched me boil water, every move of his eyes making my skin prickle. Finally, I couldn’t take it. “What?”

“Just never pictured you like this,” he said softly.

“Like what?”

He gestured around the kitchen. “At home. In sweats. Making tea at midnight. You’re always the professional, the one in charge. Here… you look different.”

I froze, mug halfway to the counter. “Don’t analyze me.”

“Can’t help it.” He stepped closer, setting the carton down. “I notice things.”

“Like what?” I whispered, instantly regretting the question.

He smiled faintly. “Like the way you bite your lip when you’re annoyed. Or how you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re nervous. Or how your cheeks flush when I say something you don’t like.”

My face burned. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” His voice dropped, teasing but edged with something heavier.

I backed up a step, but the counter pressed against my spine. He followed, slow, deliberate, setting the pizza aside.

“Xander,” I warned, though my voice cracked.

He leaned down, close enough that his breath warmed my cheek. His tone was playful still, but low, steady, dangerous.

“You want me, don’t you?”

The world stopped. My pulse thundered, my lips parted, but no sound came out.

And then Ethan’s door creaked upstairs.