JAY'S POV —
I lay there for a few more seconds, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird in a thunderstorm, convinced that if I stayed any longer, I would actually spontaneously combust.
The heat of him was an invasive species, taking over my entire sensory perception.
I could feel the steady, slow thrum of his heartbeat echoing against my spine, a rhythmic drumming that seemed to synchronize with my own frantic pulse.
My brain was a chaotic mess of static and sirens.
Screaming.
Internal screaming.
Just a constant, high-pitched frequency of 'WHAT IS HAPPENING' playing on a loop in my skull.
With the grace of a panicked shrimp and the stealth of a ninja who had forgotten how to be quiet, I began the most stressful mission of my life: the Great Escape.
I wiggled. I shifted. I practically performed a surgical extraction to slide out from under that heavy, warm arm without waking the beast.
Every time his fingers twitched against my waist, I stopped breathing, convinced that the slightest movement would trigger a landslide of intimacy that I wasn't emotionally equipped to handle.
The second my feet hit the cold floor, I bolted. I didn't walk; I sprinted to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me and leaning against it while my face felt like it had been dipped in molten lava.
"OH MY GOD! OH MY ACTUAL GOD!" I whispered-screamed into my hands, my voice cracking.
"Jay, you are a professional! You have navigated boardrooms full of sharks! Why are you acting like a Victorian maiden who just saw an naked ankle?!"
I splashed ice-cold water on my face, trying to extinguish the fire in my cheeks, but the memory of his sleep-humming against my neck kept playing on a loop in my head.
It wasn't just the physical touch; it was the vibe. The way he had held me—not like a fake husband, not like a business partner, but like I was something precious. Something he didn't want to let go of.
Stop it.
Stop it right now.
He's an asshole. A gorgeous, sculpted, infuriating asshole who probably sleeps with a spreadsheet.
Do not romanticize the cuddle, Jay!
DO NOT DO IT!
After ten minutes of frantic deep breathing and a very intense lecture to myself about professional boundaries, I ventured back into the room.
I clutched my fresh clothes to my chest like a bulletproof shield, scanning the perimeter for any sign of the enemy.
The bed was empty. The room was silent. Keifer was gone.
I let out a sigh of relief so loud it was practically a moan of spiritual salvation.
"Thank the lord. He's gone. I can actually function now. I can be Jay Mariano again. The sharp, untouchable, non-vibrating version of myself."
I practically skipped back into the bathroom, humming a victory tune as I stepped into the shower.
But as the hot water cascaded over my shoulders, the "function" part of my brain decided to take an unplanned vacation.
The steam began to curl around me, mirroring the fog of that dream, and suddenly, I wasn't just showering.
My subconscious, which apparently has a taste for high-budget erotic cinema, decided to hit 'Replay.'
I closed my eyes, and suddenly I could feel it again—the ghost of his lips grazing the corner of my mouth.
The memory of that gravelly, filthy voice promising to make me his echoed through the bathroom tiles, vibrating in the pit of my stomach.
I leaned my forehead against the cool porcelain, a shaky, traitorous breath escaping my lips as I remembered the exact pressure of his abs against my back in reality.
Why is my brain doing this? Why is it producing 4K resolution smut while I'm trying to wash my hair? This is a betrayal of the highest order! My own mind is gaslighting me into wanting the man who makes my life a living hell!
I scrubbed my skin with an intensity that bordered on aggression, as if I could literally wash away the longing.
But the more I tried to erase him, the more he seemed to seep into my pores. I was melting into the water, my thoughts spiraling into a dangerous territory where I wondered what would happen if that dream actually came true. If he actually pinned me to the headboard and whispered those things...
"I am losing my mind," I groaned, my voice sounding breathless even to my own ears.
"I am actually, clinically insane. I need a therapist. Or a cold plunge. Or a lobotomy."
Then, the tragedy struck.
The water stopped, the steam cleared, and I looked around. My heart stopped. I had forgotten my towel.
It was sitting right there on the table outside the door.
I froze, my breath hitching.
I stood there, dripping wet, feeling the sudden chill of the room hitting my skin. I slowly cracked the door open just an inch, peeking out like a spy in a high-stakes heist movie.
I scanned the room—left, right, center. No Keifer. No grey sweatpants.
No threat to my remaining shred of dignity.
"Victory is mine," I whispered, stepping out into the cool air, dripping wet and completely vulnerable.
I made a beeline for the towel, grabbing it and wrapping it tightly around my body in one swift, desperate motion, tucking the end in with a fierce determination to stay covered.
And then—the universe decided that I hadn't suffered enough for one morning.
The bedroom door swung open with a definitive click.
I froze mid-adjustment, my breath catching in my throat as Keifer stepped inside.
He wasn't just there; he was there in the most devastating way possible for my heart's health.
He was wearing those grey sweatpants—the kind that should be illegal because of how they clung to his hips—and his upper body was on full, glorious display.
His chest was a landscape of hard muscle and smooth skin, his abs defined and glistening slightly, looking like they had been carved by a renaissance master who had a specific fetish for perfection.
In his hands were two steaming cups of coffee.
Time didn't just slow down; it stopped entirely. The oxygen left the room.
There was only me—damp, wrapped in a towel that felt suddenly too thin, looking like a drowned rat—and him—looking like a literal god of desire who had come to collect my soul.
His gaze didn't just look at me; it consumed me.
His eyes swept down my body, lingering on the damp fabric of the towel, tracing the line of my collarbone and the curve of my shoulders, before snapping back up to my eyes.
He stilled, his grip tightening on the coffee cups as his expression shifted from casual to something dark, heavy, and undeniably hungry.
The silence was deafening. It was thick with an unspoken tension that felt like a live wire sparking between us.
My subconscious screamed RUN, but my body was paralyzed, mesmerized by the way his chest rose and fell with his breathing.
"AAAGGHHH!!!"
The scream ripped out of me—a high-pitched, chaotic sound of pure, unadulterated embarrassment and sensory overload. I didn't think.
I didn't speak.
I just pivoted on my heel and dove back into the bathroom with the speed of an Olympic sprinter fleeing a predator.
SLAM!
I locked the door with a violent click and threw my back against it, sliding down the wood until I hit the floor in a heap of damp towel and desperation. I buried my face in my hands, my skin feeling like it was literally on fire.
"HELL! ABSOLUTE HELL!" I shrieked internally, kicking my feet against the tiles in a fit of manic energy.
"I am dead! I am officially deceased! He saw me! He saw the damp hair! He saw the towel! He saw... everything! Why is he so hot?! Why does he have to be shirtless at 8 AM?! WHO DOES THAT?!"
I could almost hear his smirk through the door. I could imagine him standing there, leaning against the wall with those coffee cups, probably laughing at my complete mental collapse.
Jay, get it together! You are a professional!
But as I sat there on the cold bathroom floor, all I could think about was the way his eyes had darkened when he looked at me. The way he had stilled. The way he looked... wanting.
"I am so screwed," I whimpered into my palms.
Then from the other side of the door—
Very calmly.
Very, very calmly.
"...Good morning to you too, Jaybird.. coffee's on the table...I'm leaving so you can come out..."
My soul exits the building for a second time.
"JUST GET THE HELL OUT!!!"
A laugh.
A real laugh.
Entirely too amused laugh and somehow that only makes everything worse.
Much.
Much worse.