Dylan's POV
She's at it again.
Her hand lingers on my arm as she passes the salt, just a heartbeat too long. Not an accident. Not with that spark in her eyes. It coils low in my stomach, slow and sharp, and I grip the counter tighter than I should.
"Careful," I mutter, voice rougher than I intend.
Her lips curve into something that feels like a challenge. "Careful?" she teases, tilting her head, soft strands of hair slipping over her shoulder. "I'm just passing the salt. Or are you worried I'll poison you?"
"Don't push it," I say, jaw tight, turning back to the knife in my hand.
"I'm not pushing." She grins, wicked and sweet all at once. "I'm just… testing."
Testing me. My control. And she's damn good at it. Every brush of her arm, every little lean, every laugh just a bit too soft—it all presses buttons I didn't know existed.
I chop the vegetables like my life depends on it, but when her shoulder grazes mine again, the inhale catches in my chest.
And then—three sharp knocks at the door.
I freeze. She blinks. I set down the knife and head to the foyer.
Xander.
He's standing there, cold and polished like always, his expression a mask. He hands me an envelope. "Documents," he says flatly.
His gaze slides past me into the kitchen. And then he sees her. Standing there barefoot, wearing one of my T-shirts—again—hair loose, framed by warm light, like she belongs here. She glances at him, offers a small smile, then looks away, unbothered.
When I look back at Xander, his eyes are sharp. Warning. Measuring. The air between us goes tight, charged. He sees the tension, feels it in the way we move around each other, the pull neither of us hides well anymore.
But I meet his gaze evenly. Calm. Controlled. Because the truth is simple—he's already lost. He just doesn't realize it yet.
"Thanks," I say, voice clipped, and close the door before he can open his mouth.
When I return, Anastasia is leaning against the counter, arms folded, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "What was that about?"
"Work," I lie smoothly, sliding the envelope onto the console table.
She studies me for a beat, like she wants to ask more, then lets it go. Her smile returns, soft and sly. "So… since dinner's basically ready, what's next?"
I glance at the clock. Almost five. Outside, the sky is deepening, streaks of orange slipping into gray. Evening is settling in like a secret.
"What do you want to do?" I ask, moving past her to grab the plates.
"Something fun," she says, following close, brushing against me as she reaches for the glasses. Deliberate.
Her perfume curls into the space between us, soft and warm, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from leaning in.
We eat at the counter, shoulders brushing more times than necessary, and I'm aware of every single one. Her laughter is light, unguarded, and I find myself memorizing it like I'll never hear it again.
When the plates are cleared, she turns to me with that smile that should be illegal. "Movie night," she declares suddenly, tugging my hand before I can answer.
I let her lead me to the living room, because I'd follow her anywhere.
We drop onto the rug, the blanket spilling around us, and for a second, I just take her in—the way the soft lamplight pools over her skin, the way her hair falls loose around her shoulders. Barefoot. Bare-faced. Beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache.
"What do you want to watch?" I ask, scrolling through the list.
"Surprise me."
I pause on one, hit play without thinking. When the title flashes on the screen, she freezes.
"You remembered," she whispers.
I glance at her, shrugging like it's nothing. "You mentioned it once. A long time ago."
Her eyes soften. "You always remember."
The words land somewhere deep, and I look away before they can take root.
The movie starts. I hand her the popcorn, and she steals one before I can stop her, fingers brushing mine. Sparks shoot through me like a live wire.
"You eat too fast," she teases, voice dipping low. "I like watching you eat."
A laugh slips out, soft but real. "Yeah… so you've said."
Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, mumbling, "Shut up."
Minutes blur. Her knee bumps mine—light, deliberate—and when I glance at her, she doesn't move. That look, that quiet defiance, lights something reckless in my chest.
She leans closer, close enough that her breath skims my cheek. "You're impossible to watch," she murmurs, teasing, almost daring.
"And you make it impossible to look away," I whisper back, and the second the words leave my mouth, I know I've crossed some invisible line.
Her eyes flicker. And then she says it—soft, sure, like it costs nothing and everything.
"I may not remember everything… but I'd still pick you. Over and over again."
My breath catches. My hands curl into fists in my lap, holding back the urge to close the gap between us, to claim what's sitting inches away. But I don't. I can't. So I just stare, every thought unraveling.
Before I can find words, she leans in and presses her lips to my cheek. Quick. Light. Enough to detonate something inside me.
"You're dangerous," she whispers, so close I can feel her smile. "I like that look on your face."
The movie plays, but I couldn't name a single scene. Every laugh, every brush of her fingers, every accidental nudge feels like a confession I can't afford to answer.
When she yawns, the spell breaks just enough. "Sleep?" she murmurs, stretching slow and lazy, the hem of my T-shirt riding higher on her thighs. My pulse spikes, and I drag my eyes away before I do something I can't undo.
"Yeah," I manage. My voice sounds rough.
We walk to the hallway in silence, but it's anything but empty. At her door, she pauses. Then—deliberate, slow—she lets her hand trail across my shoulder as she turns. Barely a touch, just enough to brand me.
"Goodnight," she says softly.
"Goodnight, Anastasia."
Her smile lingers for a beat before the door clicks shut, and I'm left standing there, the ghost of her touch burning through the fabric of my shirt.
One day, I think. One day, this game ends—and I won't let her go.
---
Anastasia's POV
I love watching him unravel.
The way his jaw tightens when I lean too close. The way his hands grip the counter like if he lets go, something else will slip. The way he doesn't move when our shoulders brush—like he's holding his ground and losing all at once.
He feels it. The tension. The pull. And I can't stop testing the edges of it.
When Xander shows up, I almost laugh at the timing. His eyes sweep the kitchen, sharp and cutting, and land on me. He sees it—the almost-touches, the space charged enough to spark. But Dylan? He doesn't flinch. Doesn't look guilty. He stares Xander down like a man who won't back off, who won't give up what's his.
That look alone makes something hot and reckless bloom in my chest.
When the door shuts, I don't ask. I just smile and tug his arm. "Movie night," I say, pulling him toward the rug like it's the most natural thing in the world.
He follows. Always.
"What do you want to watch?" he asks.
"Surprise me."
When the title flashes on the screen, my breath hitches. My favorite—from years ago. A memory so small I barely kept it, but he did.
"You remembered," I whisper, looking at him like I'm seeing him for the first time.
He just shrugs, but I see it. The care. The choice. The way he keeps every piece of me I didn't even know I was giving away.
We sit close—closer than we should. His knee brushes mine, and he doesn't move. Neither do I.
I steal a piece of popcorn, dragging my fingers against his on purpose. His jaw ticks. His eyes flick to me and back to the screen like the effort costs him. I grin. Victory tastes sweet.
"You eat too fast," I tease, leaning in just a little. "I like watching you eat."
His mouth curves, slow and dangerous. "Yeah… so you've said."
Heat creeps up my neck, and I mutter, "Shut up," laughing softly.
The movie becomes a blur. The real story is in the way his breath changes when I lean in, the way his eyes go dark when I whisper near his ear: "You're impossible to watch."
"And you make it impossible not to," he murmurs back, voice low enough to steal every inch of air from my lungs.
My heart is a drum. Reckless. I swallow hard—and then I say it.
"I may not remember everything… but I'd still pick you. Over and over again."
For a second, I think he'll kiss me. His eyes burn into mine, raw and unguarded, like the truth is right there on his tongue. But he doesn't move. Neither do I. So I do the only thing I can—press my lips to his cheek. Quick. Soft. Just enough.
"You're dangerous," I whisper, grinning when his breath shudders. "I like that look on your face."
The movie goes on, but my attention stays locked on him. Every twitch of his jaw, every tiny breath feels like a win.
When I yawn, it feels like cutting the thread of something electric. "Sleep?" I murmur.
He nods. "Yeah."
I rise, stretching slow, letting the shirt shift higher on my thighs. His eyes flick—just for a second. Just enough to make me smile.
At the doorway, I pause and brush my hand against his shoulder. A whisper of touch, enough to make him freeze. Enough to keep me smiling all the way into my room.
"Goodnight," I say softly.
"Goodnight, Anastasia."
The way he says my name… it does things to me I can't name. I close the door, leaning against it for a second, my heart pounding.
The teasing. The touches. The tension. It hums in the silence—and tomorrow, I'm going to pull it tighter.