I Hated Him First

The House That Smelled Like Him

The House That Smelled Like Him

The first weekend after the wedding felt like walking straight into a trap.

I parked my old car next to David’s shiny black Range Rover and just sat there, gripping the steering wheel. The house looked even bigger than I remembered. Cold glass. Perfect stone. The kind of place that made my little student life feel small and messy.

Mom opened the door before I even got out of the car, smiling like the world was perfect.

“You’re here!” she said, pulling me into a tight hug. Her perfume mixed with *his* scent on her clothes. I almost pulled away.

“David’s in the study,” she added cheerfully. “He’ll be out soon.”

Great.

I stepped inside and immediately regretted it.

The whole house smelled like him.

Sandalwood. Clean cologne. And underneath it, that heavy Alpha scent that made the back of my neck prickle. It was everywhere. Hallway. Living room. Even the guest room. I threw the window open the second I dropped my bag, but it didn’t help. His scent had already soaked into the place.

Dinner was awkward from the first second.

David sat at the head of the table like he’d been born there. Mom kept smiling at him. I kept my eyes on my plate and stabbed at my food.

“How was your week, Lucy?” he asked.

That calm, deep voice made my jaw tighten.

“Fine.”

“Just fine?”

I looked up and met his eyes. Dark. Steady. Unreadable.

“Yes,” I said flatly. “Just fine.”

Mom tried to save the conversation with talk about wedding gifts and new furniture. I nodded at the right times. David didn’t push me again. He just watched. That was the problem. He always watched. Quiet. Controlled. Like he had all the time in the world.

Huh 😴 I hated how aware I was of him.

After dinner, Mom forced us to watch a movie. I sat as far away as possible on the couch. She curled into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm settled around her shoulders.

I stared at the TV and saw nothing.

All I could think about was the way his hand rested on her arm. The strength in his fingers. The steady way he breathed. I hated that I noticed any of it. I hated that my eyes kept drifting back to him. Now I picked up my phone and jumped straight to t****k videos.

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. My mind refused to shut up.

I went downstairs for water… and froze.

He was in the kitchen.

Black t-shirt. Sweatpants. Standing in front of the open fridge. The light cut across his shoulders and back, showing every line of muscle. He looked less polished like this. More real. More dangerous.

He turned when he heard me.

Our eyes locked.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, voice low.

“I just need water.”

He didn’t say anything else. He grabbed a glass, filled it, and held it out. When I took it, our fingers brushed.

It was barely a second.

It still sent a jolt straight through me.

I pulled my hand back too fast. His eyes dropped to where we touched, then slowly lifted back to my face. Something dark flickered there before he shut it down.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

“Goodnight.”

I almost ran up the stairs.

In my room, I sat on the bed with the cold glass in my hands, heart racing. I tried to tell myself it was anger. Discomfort. Anything except the truth that was already crawling under my skin.

I was noticing him.

And I hated it.

The following weekends only made it worse.

Every Friday I arrived, and he was already there. Calm. Present. Impossible to ignore. Sometimes I caught him watching me. Sometimes I stared back longer than I should have. The air between us felt tighter every single time.

One Saturday, Mom asked me to help her in the garden. David was already outside carrying heavy bags of soil like they weighed nothing. Sweat darkened his grey t-shirt. When he lifted the last bag onto his shoulder, the muscles in his arms flexed hard.

I looked away so fast my neck hurt, cheeks burning.

“He’s a good man, Lucy,” Mom said softly beside me. “I know you don’t like him yet… but give him time. Please.”

I didn’t answer.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to every small sound in the house. A door closed. Footsteps passed my room. Then silence.

I pressed my face into the pillow and squeezed my eyes shut.

I still hated him.

But the hate was getting messy.

It had edges now. Sharp, complicated edges that made my stomach tighten whenever he walked into a room. Edges that made me too aware of his voice, his scent, the way he said my name.

Something inside me was shifting.

Slow 🦥

Quiet.

Dangerous.

And the worst part?

I was starting to feel it.