002

LENA POV

My stomach bottomed out.

The second my eyes dropped, I saw it — the neckline of my tank had slipped wide open, buttons undone, one whole breast practically spilling out.

The thin fabric clung damp to my skin from running up and down the stairs, and the hard peak of my nipple was right there, obvious, exposed.

That’s what he’d been looking at.

I fumbled, yanking the fabric together with a hiss, but it was too late. His gaze had already devoured me. His hand, still clutching the towel, flexed once, like he was fighting to keep it steady.

Neither of us moved. Steam curled out from the crack of the bathroom, wrapping us in heat. His chest rose and fell, slow, deliberate, water still beading and running over hard muscle. He didn’t say a word, just looked, unashamed, holding me there like he owned the fact that I’d been caught.

Then, with the faintest tilt of his mouth, he closed the door.

Click.

The sound darted through my chest. I stumbled back down the hall, tugging my tank up, clutching it shut like a shield.

My skin was burning. My clit pulsed with every step, traitorous, throbbing from the way he’d seen me — from the way he hadn’t looked away.

By the time I reached the stairs, I was trembling.

“Lena?” Chloe’s voice floated up from below, suspicious. “You’d die up there or what?”

“Coming,” I croaked, my throat dry.

I forced myself down the steps, trying to smooth my face into something neutral. Chloe was stretched out on the couch, legs tucked under her, scrolling her phone with exaggerated disinterest. But the second she saw me, her brows lifted.

“What the hell took you so long?”

I shrugged, too fast. “Towel. He- he needed a towel.”

“Bet he did.”

“Shut up,” I muttered, collapsing onto the armchair. My heart still hadn’t steadied, my thighs pressed tight together like they could hold in the ache.

Before she could needle me again, the floor screeched above. Heavy steps.

It was Mark.

Every muscle in my body stiffened.

He came down the stairs freshly dressed, damp hair swept back, a dark shirt stretched over his chest.

He didn’t look at me at first, just moved with that unhurried confidence, but my whole body was already tuned to him. The faint scent of soap stuck to the air as he passed by.

And then, his eyes flicked, just once, back to me. A half-second of heat, recognition.

Chloe sat up straighter, phone abandoned all of a sudden. “So, Mark. Settled in already?”

He gave her a polite nod. “Almost.”

She smiled wider, shifting so her tank slipped low on one shoulder. “If you need help, I’m good at organizing. Cabinets, closets, you name it.”

He hummed, the faintest sound, then pulled out a chair at the table. “Thanks, but I’ll manage.”

I watched Chloe’s smile tighten, just slightly. She twirled her hair, leaning forward. “You must be starving. Lena and I were just talking about food. Right, babe?”

I blinked. “Uh—yeah.”

Mark’s gaze cut to me again, brief but sharp, like he could see straight through my stammer. My thighs pressed even tighter.

Lunch went by in fragments — Dad’s chatter, Chloe’s endless attempts to pull Mark’s attention, Mark answering her politely but always looking back at me.

Every brush of his eyes sent another jolt through me, another reminder of the bathroom, the undone buttons, the way he’d stared without shame.

When I stood to carry dishes into the kitchen, he stood too. Our paths crossed in the narrow doorway, his arm brushing mine. Just a graze. But heat flared up my skin like fire, my breath catching as his body passed close.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

The word slid down my spine. He wasn't sorry at all.

I dumped the plates into the sink, hands shaking, pulse out of control. Chloe was still in the dining room, her laugh too loud, like she was trying to stitch herself into his attention. But when I risked a glance back, he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at me.

Later, when the dishes were stacked and Dad had gone off about paperwork, Chloe pulled me aside, whispering. “Okay, what is going on with him?”

I froze. “What do you mean?”

She arched a brow. “Don’t play dumb. He’s… intense. You feel it too, don’t you?”

Heat flushed my face. “He’s just… older. That’s all.”

Her smirk widened. “Older and ridiculously hot.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because she was right, and the admission sat like a live wire between us.

The rest of the day passed in a haze of heat and frustration. Every brush of his hand against mine made my stomach twist; every low murmur of his voice sent sparks crawling across my skin. Chloe hovered too close, laughing a little too loud, letting her fingers brush his arm, but I knew — I saw the way his eyes darted back to me.

When evening finally came, Chloe left with a dramatic sigh, hugging me hard at the door. “Call me if anything… exciting happens.”

I rolled my eyes, but my stomach twisted. Because the second she was gone, the air in the house felt different. Quieter.

I escaped upstairs, needing distance, needing to breathe. But when I pushed open my bedroom door, I froze.

There, on my pillow, sat a folded piece of paper.

My chest tightened as I stepped closer, fingers trembling as I picked it up.

One line. Slanted handwriting.

“Button up next time. Or don’t ;)”