The morning didn't so much arrive as it unfolded—slow, golden, lazy. It bled in through the edges of the curtains in soft streaks of light, wrapping everything in a warm hush. The stillness was deep, a bubble suspended in time.
Vanessa stirred against warmth that wasn't just the sun.
She felt it before she remembered where she was—felt the gentle rise and fall of breath, the steady press of a heartbeat behind her, the weight of an arm draped low and possessively across her waist. His fingers had curled just under the hem of the sweatshirt she still wore, calloused tips skimming the sensitive skin at her hip. Lazy. Familiar. Like they'd been doing this for years.
She wasn't just close to him—she was entwined.
Her body had molded into his sometime in the night, a perfect, unconscious fit. The slow exhale she released stirred the hair at the back of his neck. Her thighs pressed lightly together beneath the covers, a fresh wave of awareness flooding her chest, her stomach, her core.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
At least not like this. Not without a plan. Not without distance. Not with her surrendering, one soft breath at a time, to a man who knew exactly how to pull her apart with silence and subtlety.
And yet… her eyes drifted shut again.
She didn't want to move.
A slow rustle of movement behind her—then stillness. But different now. Aware.
She felt it in her gut before she even opened her eyes.
She was being watched.
With reluctant curiosity, Vanessa blinked herself awake—and froze.
Ethan was already up on one elbow beside her, watching her like she was the most captivating, most predictable thing in the world. His white hair was artfully messy, his gaze heavy-lidded and devastatingly unreadable. There was something indulgent in the way he looked at her. Something... tender, buried beneath the usual arrogance. It made her heart give one sharp, traitorous thump against her ribs.
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
She swallowed. "What?"
Her voice came out low, sleep-drenched. Intimate.
That stupid, infuriating smirk deepened on his lips.
"Nothing," he murmured.
Liar.
She could hear it in the smug rhythm of his breath. She shifted slightly beneath the blankets, hyper-aware of every inch of skin they shared, of how her bare legs tangled loosely with his under the sheets, of how she was still very much wearing nothing but that sweatshirt and the thinnest sliver of modesty.
Her brow furrowed. "You're smiling like you know something I don't."
Ethan chuckled softly—God, even that sounded sinful in the quiet morning air—and reached out, dragging his fingers in slow, almost lazy circles along her side. Her breath hitched, involuntary and way too obvious.
"I was just thinking," he said, his voice still thick from sleep, "that I was hoping you'd come to me last night." His eyes traced her face like he was memorizing something he'd seen a thousand times but wanted in higher resolution. "And I'm glad you did."
Vanessa's breath caught.
Heat crawled up the back of her neck, seeping into her cheeks, her chest, her ears. She could feel him watching her squirm under the weight of it, and still—she didn't move away.
Of course he'd expected her. The unlocked door, the low voice at bedtime, the look that lingered a second too long. He'd invited her with nothing but silence and space, and she—idiot that she was—had walked right in.
Drawn like a moth to the match still smoldering in his fingers.
She groaned, more to herself than him, and shoved lightly at his chest. "You're so cocky."
His hand caught hers before she could retreat. Fingers threaded through hers—warm, gentle, unyielding.
"Not cocky," he murmured, brushing his thumb against the back of her knuckles. "Just right."
Vanessa wanted to scoff. Or at least glare.
Instead, she stared down at their joined hands and—God help her—smiled.
A small, traitorous thing. But real.
He always did this—disarmed her not with grand declarations, but with quiet certainty. No arrogance needed, not when the truth had already unfolded the night before, in the curve of her body finding its place against his.
She didn't try to argue. Not this time.
By the time they made their way downstairs, the intimacy of the night clung to her skin like a second layer.
Vanessa had washed her face, brushed her hair, and stared at the stack of curated clothes waiting in the wardrobe with growing resentment. The skirt had been discarded without a second thought. But the panties stayed on. Bare legs and his sweatshirt—felt like a subtle rebellion.
Small victory.
Petty, but necessary.
Ethan, damn him, looked pristine as ever. Buttoned shirt, pressed slacks, and not a single strand of white hair out of place. As if he hadn't spent the entire night wrapped around her, murmuring her name in sleep. As if her being in his bed had been just another part of the plan.
It probably was.
The smell of coffee and fresh bread hit her as they entered the kitchen—warm, familiar, grounding. Her stomach betrayed her with a soft growl. It had been hours since she'd last eaten, but her nerves were wound so tight it was hard to tell if she was hungry or just... unraveling.
His grandparents were already seated at the table, mid-conversation, the low timbre of their voices blending with the clink of cutlery. At the sound of footsteps, both looked up.
His grandmother spotted her first.
Her eyes didn't miss a thing.
"Good morning, dear." A knowing smile curved her lips. "You look comfortable."
The implication was a dagger wrapped in silk.
Vanessa's cheeks flamed as she resisted the very strong urge to cross her arms defensively over the hoodie. Instead, she lifted her chin and gave what she hoped was a neutral smile.
"Morning," she replied, cool, measured, pretending her entire body wasn't still humming from the night.
Ethan, the smug bastard, just pulled out a chair for her like a perfect gentleman. Like this was all normal. Like she hadn't just tiptoed out of his bed not twenty minutes ago.
She sat with as much dignity as she could muster, legs crossed, heart pounding, and absolutely refused to look at him.
He didn't need her to.
He already knew.
This was going to be a very long morning.
Vanessa had braced herself for something formal—stoic silver-haired elegance, starched collars, the kind of passive judgment passed over antique china teacups and inherited silence. Ethan's family had old money written all over them. She'd expected cold glances. Polite indifference. Maybe a touch of disapproval masked by brittle smiles.
What she hadn't expected… was this.
"You can sleep in Ethan's room if you want, dear," his grandmother said lightly, handing Vanessa a plate piled high with warm, fragrant bread. "Just try to control yourself in the sex department, alright?"
Vanessa choked.
Not on coffee. Not on food.
On air.
She stared, wide-eyed, her lungs refusing to work. Time stuttered violently to a halt. Her fingers went rigid around the ceramic handle of her cup as her brain desperately tried to reboot. Surely—surely—she'd misheard. There was no way those words had come from the mouth of a woman wearing pearls and floral-print cashmere.
Her head whipped toward Ethan like a reflex. She expected him to be frozen with shock, to at least pretend to be mortified.
But of course not.
He sat there with maddening ease, sipping his coffee as if nothing remotely outrageous had just occurred. Not a flicker of discomfort crossed his face. No blush. No hesitation. Just that calm, unreadable poise he wore like armor.
Vanessa, in stark contrast, was a slow-burning wildfire of secondhand embarrassment. She could feel every drop of blood in her body rushing upward—flaming her cheeks, her neck, the tips of her ears. Her stomach flipped. Her thoughts scattered like ash on wind.
"I—I wasn't—We didn't—" she sputtered, trying to wrestle her voice into something resembling coherence. Her mouth kept moving but no actual sentences emerged.
Ethan finally glanced at her then, and the subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth made her want to throw something—preferably hot coffee, directly at his smug face.
"She's teasing you, Vanessa," he said, voice smooth like melted chocolate. Infuriatingly so.
"Oh, I know that," she snapped, tugging the sleeves of his damn sweatshirt farther down over her hands. "Doesn't make it any less humiliating."
His grandmother chuckled into her tea, clearly enjoying every second of this. "I'm just saying, dear. We might be old, but we aren't blind."
Vanessa opened her mouth. Closed it. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry or run out of the house and never look back.
From behind a newspaper, Ethan's grandfather finally joined the chaos. He lowered the pages with all the patience of a man who had seen every possible form of romantic idiocy and lived to smirk about it.
"I don't care what you two do," he said bluntly, eyes magnified behind thick lenses. "Just keep the noise down."
Vanessa's soul left her body.
It ascended.
She stared, horrified, unable to believe she was actually living this moment. Ethan—that bastard—was smirking now, openly, like Christmas had come early and he was unwrapping her discomfort piece by piece.
"Noted," he murmured, cool as ever. Then, turning slightly, added under his breath with a sideways glance that made her stomach tighten, "We'll be mindful."
Her leg shot out before she could stop herself. A sharp kick under the table—pointed, deliberate, full of pent-up indignation.
Ethan didn't even flinch.
He just arched an eyebrow at her like she was amusing and maybe a little adorable. Infuriating.
This trip was going to kill her.
Once the teasing at her expense finally—mercifully—settled down, the conversation shifted. Vanessa clung to the change like a life raft.
"We were thinking," Ethan's grandmother said, refilling her cup, "you might like to explore a bit while you're here. Get a taste of the local charm."
"There's a beautiful old library in the city," she offered, her tone lighter now, genuinely kind. "It has a stained-glass ceiling and a rare manuscript room."
Vanessa perked up slightly. That actually did sound intriguing.
"She doesn't care about libraries, Oma," Ethan interjected, stirring his coffee without looking up.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes. "Excuse you. I like libraries."
He raised a single brow in quiet challenge. "Since when?"
Okay, maybe she didn't love them the way he did—didn't fantasize about first editions or consider dusty tomes foreplay—but the point wasn't whether she liked them. The point was that he thought he knew her better than she knew herself.
And that?
Unacceptable.
"There's also the marketplace," Ethan's grandfather added, pushing the newspaper aside. "It's lively this time of year—great street food, local artists, music. A lot of color. Could be fun."
Vanessa nodded. That actually sounded like something she could enjoy—somewhere to get lost, wander around without Ethan looming so close, messing with her head.
But before she could say so, his grandmother struck again.
"And there's a little lake," she added, with a voice just a shade too sweet. "About an hour's drive. Secluded. Quiet. Perfect for young couples who might want a bit of... alone time."
Vanessa nearly dropped her coffee.
Again?
Ethan didn't bat an eye.
He simply sipped from his mug like the suggestion of lakeside trysts was the most ordinary thing in the world.
Vanessa clenched her jaw so hard it ached. The air around her felt too warm again. Her grip on the ceramic mug tightened until she worried it might crack in her hands.
Smug bastard.
She could practically hear the silent satisfaction radiating off him. Every subtle smirk, every casual shrug—it was all part of the game. He was winning.
Too easily.
Fine.
Let him have his moment.
But she'd make him pay.
Not with words. Not with a public scene. No—Vanessa would bide her time, and when the moment came, she would drag him into the same kind of chaos he so effortlessly inflicted on her.
She'd make him squirm.
And when she did, he'd never see it coming.
A little while later after most of breakfast was over
Vanessa hadn't expected an interrogation.
Questions? Sure. Polite curiosity? Obviously. She'd even rehearsed a few vague, charming answers in her head during the time at her parents place just in case. But this?
This was a full-scale cross-examination.
From the very moment Ethan excused himself to take a phone call—leaving her alone at the table with his grandparents—it began. Swift and unrelenting.
His grandmother, with her kind eyes and velvet voice, shifted with disarming ease into something sharper. Not cruel. Not unkind. But precise. Surgical. Each question peeled back a layer. Not just of Vanessa's story, but of her. She asked not what Vanessa did, but why. She didn't just want answers. She wanted insight. Motive. Foundation.
And his grandfather?
He barely spoke two full sentences. But his silence was the kind that demanded attention. Every hum, every slight tilt of his head, every measured sip of tea landed with the weight of a verdict. He watched her not like a doting elder—but like a seasoned soldier watching a sparring match, calculating strengths and weaknesses down to the breath.
Vanessa had fought for her life before—literal fists, bruised ribs, adrenaline spiking behind her teeth. She'd been in cages, on mats, toe-to-toe with girls built to kill.
But this? This was something else entirely.
Still, she didn't flinch.
She straightened her spine, locked eyes with them both, and answered every question like it was a punch she saw coming.
Why are you with him?
"Because I want to be. No other reason."
Do you understand what it means to be with someone like Ethan?
"I think that's something you should ask him."
And your future? What does that look like with a boy like him in it?
"College first. Then we'll see. But I don't see a future without Ethan in it."
Her voice didn't waver, not once. But she felt it—every answer tightening something in her chest, every word laced with quiet defiance and a flicker of hope she didn't know what to do with.
And when she finished—when the last answer lingered in the silence that followed—something shifted.
His grandmother's lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. That sharp gleam in her eye softened, just enough. And across from her, his grandfather gave a single, deliberate nod.
Vanessa didn't move, didn't breathe until they did.
It wasn't an applause. It wasn't a warm embrace.
But it was enough.
A victory, small and hard-won.
Only then did she realize she'd been holding her breath the whole time.
And Ethan—that smug, insufferable bastard—had been leaning against the doorway the entire time, sipping his coffee like he'd been watching a private show made just for him.
As soon as they stepped outside, she elbowed him. Hard.
He didn't even flinch.
"Enjoyed that, did you?" she snapped, her voice low, still brimming with residual tension.
He smirked, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Immensely."
"You could've said something."
"You were doing fine on your own."
She glared, arms folded tight over her chest. "They nearly dissected me."
"And you passed." He glanced over, his tone softer now. "I think they like you."
Vanessa blinked.
The words hit harder than they should have. Like some hidden part of her had been hoping—desperately, quietly—that she'd earn their approval. That someone in his life would see her and think yes, her. She's good enough.
"You think?" she asked, unable to keep the hesitation out of her voice.
Ethan's gaze dropped to their joined hands. "They wouldn't have let you leave unscathed if they didn't."
Heat bloomed beneath her skin. She looked away, swallowing hard.
Damn him.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the tension settled right back in—coiling beneath her skin like it had never left.
Ethan leaned against the wardrobe, arms crossed, a dangerous smile playing on his lips.
Vanessa gripped the hem of the sweatshirt tighter.
She could feel his eyes on her, practically feasting on the inner war she was losing.
"Having trouble?" he asked, his voice a quiet taunt, head tilted just slightly. The picture of calm chaos. Like he was the one writing the script, and she'd just stumbled into the role he'd written for her.
"No," she said flatly.
But she was lying. And they both knew it.
The damn sweatshirt—his sweatshirt—clung to her like a second skin now. It smelled like him. Felt like him. Every time she moved, it pulled just enough to remind her she was wearing him. That it wasn't hers. That it could be.
She hated that it comforted her. Hated that it grounded her. Hated the way it made her ache.
Ethan watched every flicker of her expression like it was his favorite movie.
And then—just when she was at her tipping point—he moved.
He reached into the wardrobe with effortless grace, pulled out a soft white zip-up, a black fitted top, sleek leggings, and boots and of course undergarments. He held them out to her like a peace offering.
Or bait.
"Here," he said, all faux innocence.
Then, a beat later, with that infuriating smirk curling the corner of his mouth:
"Unless, of course, you'd rather just wear the sweatshirt alone."
Vanessa's breath caught.
He knew exactly what he was doing. The implication in his voice wasn't subtle—it was smooth, low, dangerous. Not crude. But intentional. Like he'd already imagined it. Visualized every inch of skin she wasn't showing. Memorized the shape of her beneath the oversized fabric and decided he would be the one to undress her. Not with hands. Not yet.
With words.
She narrowed her eyes. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
Ethan stepped forward slowly, his voice dipping just enough to brush across her skin.
"Wouldn't you?"
Her entire body tensed.
Her grip on the hem tightened. She could still feel the weight of his hand on her waist from this morning. Still remember the heat of his breath in her ear. Still feel the ghost of where he'd held her like she belonged to him.
Damn him.
She snatched the clothes from his hand like a challenge, her chin lifting in defiance.
"I'm changing."
"Shame," he murmured.
And as she turned to stalk past him, determined to keep the last word—
He leaned down, lips brushing so close to her ear she swore her skin lit up.
"You don't have to change on my account," he whispered. "I don't mind the view."
Vanessa stumbled.
Only just managed not to trip.
The bathroom door slammed behind her, more for her than for him.
And still—it wasn't enough to drown out the sound of her heart pounding like it wanted out of her chest. Or the heat curling in her belly. Or the realization that every second spent in his orbit only drew her deeper into whatever this was becoming.
God, she hated how good he was at this.
And worse—
How much she wanted him to keep going.
The thought echoed in Vanessa's head, louder than it should have, bouncing between the chambers of her chest and the pit of her stomach.
She dressed slowly, almost mechanically, slipping into the outfit Ethan had chosen for her: the white jacket felt clean and precise, the black top clung to her skin like a whisper, and the leggings… well. They didn't hide much. The boots clicked softly against the floor as she moved. She caught her reflection in the mirror and almost didn't recognize the woman looking back. Sleek. Composed.
But inside?
She was a goddamn hurricane.
By the time she stepped out, Ethan was already waiting for her—leaning against the hallway wall, dressed in black and denim and worn leather, his silhouette so effortlessly cool it made her grit her teeth.
She hated how good he looked. Hated it.
Mostly because she wanted to tear the jacket off him with her teeth.
They didn't say much as they made their way downstairs. Polite goodbyes to his grandparents, who had the nerve to look knowingly amused, as if they were all in on some secret Vanessa hadn't been let in on. His grandmother gave her a wink. His grandfather just sipped his tea.
And then they were in the garage.
The air was colder here—sharper. It bit at her cheeks and made her pulse race. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was anticipation. Maybe it was just him, standing beside his motorcycle like it belonged to him in the same way her body seemed to lean toward his without permission.
Ethan turned to her, voice casual. "Which one?"Gesturing to the car and motorcycle
There was no hesitation.
"The bike," she said, her voice stronger than she felt.
His lips curled in approval—but, maddeningly, he didn't comment. He simply swung his leg over the seat, waiting.
Vanessa moved to climb on behind him, but as soon as she settled, she realized just how little space there was between them.
None, actually.
The incline of the seat pushed her forward, pressing her body flush against his back. Her chest molded to his spine, her thighs tight against his hips. There was no room to pretend. No space for modesty.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Instinct took over—her arms looped around his waist for balance, fingers brushing the thin fabric of his shirt.
God, he was warm.
Solid.
Real in a way that was suddenly too much and not enough all at once.
She could feel the rise and fall of his breath beneath her palms. The tension in his abdomen. The steady thrum of his pulse through the fabric. His scent hit her hard—leather, faint spice, something clean and masculine and Ethan—and she hated how fast her head swam with it.
He let out a low, amused chuckle that vibrated straight through her ribs.
"Comfortable?" he asked, smug.
Vanessa scowled, even though he couldn't see it. "Shut up."
His fingers ghosted over hers, feather-light. "Holding tight princess"
God, his voice. It was soft, but intimate. Possessive.
Her jaw clenched.
She squeezed him tighter, mostly out of spite—but she couldn't ignore the way he felt under her hands. Or how right it felt. Or how, when her hands slid a fraction lower, she could feel the defined lines of his abdomen tightening in response.
He didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
And just when she thought she might get the upper hand—might regain a sliver of control—he turned his head, his voice smooth and slow and devastating.
"Remember," he murmured, "there are no speed limits in Germany."
She barely had time to blink before the engine roared to life.
The bike surged forward, and Vanessa's breath was stolen clean out of her lungs. The world blurred around them in a rush of color and wind and him. The force of acceleration slammed her tighter against his back, her arms locking reflexively around him, her body molded to his.
She let out a startled sound—half curse, half gasp—as her fingers dug into his jacket.
Ethan laughed. A deep, rich sound that rolled through her like thunder.
"What's wrong, Vanessa?" he called over his shoulder, voice maddeningly light.
"I hate you," she muttered, cheeks burning.
Another chuckle—this one lower, darker. "That's not what your grip is saying."
She was going to kill him.
But first—
She let her hands slide lower. Just slightly. Just enough to cross the line .
A pause.
A breath.
And she felt it—that tiny flicker of reaction. The way his muscles tensed, just for a second. The way his posture shifted, ever so slightly.
She grinned against his shoulder. Got you.
For once, she'd gotten a win.
Ethan recovered too quickly, of course. As always.
A soft hum escaped him, barely audible over the wind. "Careful, Vanessa," he said, his voice honey and smoke. "You might make me think you actually like this."
She rolled her eyes. "Oh, please."
But then he leaned into it—his voice dropping another octave, slow and deliberate. "Then why are you still holding on so tight?"
She refused to let go. Absolutely not. Not now.
Instead, she shifted again—adjusting her grip, just to make a point.
Except her point backfired.
Her fingers dragged down over his abdomen, harder than she meant to, and—
Ethan inhaled sharply.
The sound—quiet, guttural, real—rushed through her like electricity.
Vanessa froze.
Shit.
Her smirk faltered, nerves flaring in her chest.
Since when was he this defined?
Her palms were suddenly hyper-aware—every contour, every line of muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt pressed into memory like a brand.
He felt like a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
And she had walked right into his game.
"Something wrong?" he asked, amusement dripping from every syllable.
She gritted her teeth. "Shut. Up."
His laughter was deep, vibrating through her chest again.
And then, just as she was trying to regroup—just as she was clawing her dignity back together—
He twisted the throttle.
The bike surged forward again, faster this time, and Vanessa yelped, her entire body slamming against his. There was no pretending now. No illusion of space or control. She was wrapped around him, every inch of her clinging to every inch of him.
The heat of him soaked into her. The smell of him surrounded her. The strength of him—steady and unflinching—held her in place as the wind rushed past.
And there was nowhere to go.
Nowhere to hide from the way her body betrayed her at every turn.
"Something wrong?" he echoed, voice smug as sin.
Vanessa didn't answer.
She couldn't. Her jaw was locked too tight.
Because the truth was—she didn't know if she could speak without saying too much.
When they finally stopped, her legs were jelly.
Vanessa swung her leg over the bike with more force than necessary, boots hitting the ground in a stumble she couldn't quite disguise. Her legs—traitorous, trembling things—barely held her up. She cursed under her breath, straightening herself with a huff as she smoothed down her leggings. Not for vanity—no, this was survival. A defense mechanism. A futile attempt to mask the way her entire body was still humming from the ride.
From him.
She shot Ethan a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "That was a mistake."
He didn't even have the decency to pretend concern. He simply smirked, slow and cocky, as he peeled off his helmet. His white hair spilled out in a tousled mess that looked criminally good, especially under the slanting afternoon light. He shook it once, casually, like a model in a shampoo commercial. Bastard.
"I did warn you," he said, voice as smooth as ever—silk dragged over steel.
Vanessa clenched her fists. One of them made its way to his shoulder, her knuckles meeting muscle with a satisfying thud. Not hard enough to actually hurt him, but more than enough to punctuate her point.
He didn't even blink.
Worse—his smirk deepened, and the way he looked at her then, all hooded lids and dark amusement, sent a hot, mortifying flush straight through her body. It wasn't just arrogance in his gaze—it was possession. The kind of look that said I know what I do to you and you're not hiding a damn thing.
Vanessa wanted to hit him again.
Or grab the collar of his leather jacket and drag him into the nearest wall.
No.
Focus, goddammit.
Ethan stepped closer—too close—and with infuriating ease, reached out to adjust the lapels of her jacket like he had every right to touch her. His knuckles skimmed her collarbone, light as air but somehow burning. She forced herself not to shiver.
"Shall we?" he asked, nodding toward the library doors.
She rolled her eyes with enough force to give herself a headache but said nothing, her feet already falling into rhythm beside his. Her body still ached with ghost sensations—the cling of his back against her chest, the flex of his muscles beneath her fingertips, the subtle shifts of his torso that had pressed deeper into her every time he'd leaned into the throttle.
Every goddamn step was a betrayal.
The library was beautiful. Vaulted ceilings, long aisles of books that disappeared into quiet shadows, sunlight fractured through stained glass and pooling in warm puddles on the floor. A place that should have grounded her.
But all she could feel was him.
She turned slightly, just enough to catch him in her peripheral. Ethan looked completely unaffected, his expression a portrait of smug composure, like the ride hadn't even registered in his bloodstream. Like she hadn't clung to him like her life depended on it.
It sparked something sharp and defiant in her chest.
Smug bastard.
If he wanted to pretend like none of that meant anything, fine. Two could play that game.
Vanessa took a slow, measured step forward—just enough that her arm brushed against his. The contact was subtle, casual… but deliberate. Her heart jumped. She didn't show it.
"Where to first?" she asked sweetly, masking her intent beneath a perfect veil of false innocence.
Ethan's gaze flicked toward her—barely a fraction, but enough. His expression remained unreadable, but something shifted behind his eyes.
His lips quirked, and when he spoke, it was in that low voice only meant for her.
"Careful, Vanessa," he said softly, "you might make me think you actually want to be close to me."
Her pulse skipped, traitorous and loud in her ears.
She gave him a look. "You're imagining things."
But her voice lacked bite, and she hated how he probably noticed.
The scent of old books and polished wood surrounded them, but Vanessa barely registered any of it. Her senses were too overwhelmed—hyper-focused on the shape of his mouth, the way he walked, the steady hum of heat still simmering under her skin from that damn ride.
He started this.
Fine.
She'd finish it.
She walked a little faster, angling her body toward him, just enough to bring them closer than strictly necessary. She could lean in—say something sweet and deadly-soft in his ear. She could 'accidentally' brush her fingers against his thigh. Let her touch linger somewhere it shouldn't. Make his smirk falter. Make him twitch.
The thought alone lit something hot and wicked low in her stomach.
Or better—she could straighten his collar, innocent as ever, and let her fingers dip lower—right over the waistband of his jeans. Just enough pressure to make him feel it, just enough tension to leave him wondering if it was on purpose.
Yes. That would wipe the smirk off his—
A sudden squeeze on her ass jolted her so hard she gasped.
Loudly.
Her entire body jerked, eyes snapping wide as her head whipped toward him in disbelief.
Ethan stood like nothing had happened.
Expression neutral.
Hand at his side.
Bastard.
"Finally," he murmured, and his voice was silk and fire. "I called you twice."
Her jaw dropped, but no words came out.
His mouth curved as he leaned in, his breath brushing hot against the shell of her ear.
"Lost in thought, were we?"
The heat that exploded across her skin was instant and unbearable.
He knew.
Somehow, he knew exactly what she'd been thinking. What she'd been planning. As if he could read the script in her head and rewrite it mid-sentence.
She clenched her jaw, forcing her face into something resembling composure.
"I was thinking," she snapped.
"Dangerous," he said, and his grin deepened as he stepped ahead. "Though I have to admit, whatever had you distracted must've been interesting."
She glared at his back, arms crossed tight across her chest like armor.
She was going to kill him.
Or kiss him.
Probably both.
Ethan gestured toward a small shop just off the main corridor, its windows lined with trinkets and delicate ornaments.
"The memento shop," he said with maddening calm. "Thought you might want to get something for your parents."
She exhaled sharply through her nose, the breath catching slightly as her pulse still ran wild beneath her skin. He was too calm. Too collected. It was like nothing rattled him—no touch, no look, no threat. He was always two steps ahead, and she hated that.
And loved it.
Without a word, she turned and walked into the shop, her boots striking the floor with purpose. Determined. Unyielding.
She didn't know how yet, but she was going to flip the script.
One way or another, Vanessa had to wrest control back—if not of the situation, then at least of herself.
The moment she stepped inside the quaint little shop, the sensory shift hit her like a wall. The rich scent of aged wood, varnish, and something faintly floral filled the air. Time seemed to slow in here, the world shrinking down to the soft creak of the old floorboards beneath her boots and the faint ticking of tiny clocks lining the shelves.
But even surrounded by trinkets of German charm and vintage nostalgia, she couldn't quiet the storm inside her.
Her fingers drifted absently over the items—intricately designed beer steins, delicate hand-painted cuckoo clocks, tiny porcelain figurines frozen mid-dance. Everything in here was beautiful, detailed, precise. Like it belonged in a world untouched by chaos.
Unlike her.
Unlike this.
She told herself to focus. Her mother would absolutely ask for a souvenir. And if she returned without one, there would be questions, passive-aggressive comments over dinner, and a phone call two weeks later with a long, drawn-out "I guess you just forgot about us."
So she found a solution.
A hand-carved jewelry box caught her eye—elegant and floral, with a soft sheen that made the carving look alive under the light. For her mother, it was perfect. Beautiful and tasteful without being too delicate to use.
Her father was easier. A clean-cut beer stein with a traditional crest, simple but solid. He'd probably use it once and then put it on a shelf like a trophy. Either way, he'd be pleased.
She turned toward Ethan, holding up the items. "These should be good," she said, her voice breezier than she felt.
He gave a single glance, nodding his approval—and then, without missing a beat, turned toward the elderly shopkeeper and started speaking in German.
Vanessa blinked.
It took her a second to process what was happening. His voice was deeper in this language, richer somehow. The cadence rolled off his tongue with an effortless rhythm, like he'd been speaking it all his life. No hesitation. No fumbling for words.
She understood bits and pieces—two years of half-hearted middle school German hadn't exactly made her fluent, but it was enough to catch context.
He's bargaining.
Of course he is.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching.
It was so him. Ethan, who could afford anything, still couldn't resist the art of negotiation. He hated wasting money—not out of stinginess, but principle. Efficiency. Strategy. A game he had to win, even over a few euros.
And somehow—somehow—the sight of him leaning casually against the counter, hands gesturing with slow precision, his words confident and fluid, felt… obscenely attractive.
Which made no sense. Absolutely none.
Vanessa found herself staring—watching the movement of his mouth, the way his lips curled around unfamiliar syllables. Each flicker of his jawline, the low timbre of his voice, the subtle arrogance in his posture. He looked relaxed. Fully in his element. Like he belonged here, effortlessly slipping between cultures, languages, realities.
Unfair.
It was deeply, annoyingly unfair that he could still fluster her by speaking a foreign language. She shouldn't be focused on his mouth. She shouldn't be biting her lower lip while imagining it saying things much less appropriate.
And yet—
There she was.
The soft scrape of his name across her thoughts.
The memory of his hand on her ass still echoing like a slap in her mind.
The warmth of his back against her chest during that ride, the vibration of the engine rattling through her core—
"Vanessa."
She jerked, startled out of her spiraling thoughts.
Ethan was watching her, voice calm, but with that telltale lilt of amusement. His eyes flicked over her face like he knew. Like he could read every inch of the heat blooming under her skin.
"See something you like?"
And there it was.
The smirk.
She hated that smirk. That stupid, smug twist of his lips that said I caught you.
Heat rushed up her neck like wildfire.
She cleared her throat. "I was just—uh—wondering how much you're saving with all that… talking."
Smooth. Real smooth.
He chuckled. A low, velvety sound that slipped under her skin and curled in her belly like smoke.
"Enough," he said, voice dipping just enough to make her toes curl. "But I could always ask for more of a discount if you're that interested in watching."
She stared at him. Glared, really. Or tried to.
"Shut up."
But the words came out too soft, too breathy, to be taken seriously.
He turned back to the shopkeeper without another word, as if that brief exchange hadn't just unraveled her completely.
Vanessa let out a slow breath, one hand braced on the nearest shelf to steady herself. Her pulse was out of control, racing like she'd just run a mile.
This country—
This trip—
This man—
Was going to be the death of her.
Vanessa hadn't fully caught her breath since stepping out of that shop. Her chest was still too tight, her palms still a little clammy despite the cool breeze brushing her face. It was ridiculous. She wasn't new to this game—this maddening tug-of-war of glances and barely-there touches and not-quite-said things. But with Ethan, the rules were always shifting. And she hated that he was better at it than her.
He handed her the bag without a word, the soft crinkle of wrapping inside the small package the only sound between them for a second too long. His fingers brushed hers—not enough to be obvious, just enough to feel deliberate.
His face was unreadable. Calm. Unbothered. Infuriatingly smooth. But that glint in his eyes—that told her everything. He was enjoying this. Enjoying her being off-balance. Uncentered. Still hot in the face from that damn shop and the way he'd practically seduced the room by speaking fluent German like it was nothing.
As they walked toward the bike, Vanessa let out a sharp exhale, trying to push the heat from her face, from her skin, from the memories creeping up the back of her mind.
She didn't want to ask.
She really didn't.
But the words slipped out anyway.
"Why do you do that?"
Her tone was almost casual. Almost. But the question hung heavy between them, too loaded to be brushed off as nothing.
Ethan turned his head slightly, one brow lifting with that maddening, effortless grace. "Do what?"
She gave him a flat look. "You know what. Hiding all these ridiculous skills like you're Jason Bourne with a better wardrobe. You could've at least mentioned you spoke German before dragging me into a local shop like it's no big deal."
The corner of his mouth curled, slow and dangerous. "Would it have made a difference?"
Vanessa opened her mouth—and then stopped. Because damn it, he had her. Again.
It wouldn't have changed anything. Not really. But it grated on her nerves that he always had some trick up his sleeve. Always composed. Always one step ahead. Always in control.
She folded her arms tight across her chest. "I mean, you could've told me that night," she muttered, almost under her breath. The words felt safe until she heard them out loud. Until she felt the silence snap between them like a live wire.
That night.
And suddenly her breath caught. Too late.
She hadn't meant to bring that up. Not here. Not now.
God, what the hell was she thinking?
Ethan didn't miss a beat.
That slow, dangerous smile stretched wider across his lips. The kind that warned you the trap had already closed, and he was just deciding how long to toy with you before springing it fully.
"The night you decided to fully explore my skillset?" he said, voice lower now, softer—like a blade whispering just beneath skin.
Vanessa's spine went ramrod straight. Her fingers gripped the souvenir bag tighter, the paper crinkling under her hold. Her cheeks burned.
"Shut up," she hissed, each syllable punched out like a weapon.
But Ethan just chuckled, and that sound—deep and smug and so damn pleased with himself—rolled through her like a drug.
He reached the bike and swung one leg over it, straddling the seat in one smooth, fluid motion like he was born on it. Like he belonged there. Like she belonged behind him.
Vanessa stood frozen for a breath too long, her body still tingling with the aftershocks of that night he so casually mentioned.
The night her self-control shattered.
The night she let herself touch him—really touch him—until she couldn't think anymore.
The way he'd held her gaze the whole time, calm, composed, coaxing every sound from her lips without breaking a sweat.
How he'd made her ask. Beg, almost. Tease her with softness, with patience, until she couldn't take it anymore.
And he knew she was thinking about it.
Of course he did. The bastard always knew.
Ethan patted the seat behind him. "Come on, princess," he said, voice warm and low. "Unless you'd rather stay here and relive that night a little longer?"
That was it.
Vanessa didn't say a word. Just marched over and climbed on—slamming herself against his back with more force than necessary, like she could drive all the heat and ache and longing into him by sheer proximity.
Ethan didn't flinch. Of course not. He just laughed.
And that sound—that fucking sound—rattled through her chest like the engine already humming beneath them.
She bit her lip hard enough to sting.
Germany, she thought grimly, is really going to kill me.
~~~~~