I watched him from the doorway, leaning against the frame like I wasn’t still buzzing from earlier's almosts. Shirtless. Sweatpants slung low on his hips, that same deep V from the shower peeking out.
Tattoos shifting every time he moved—flipping eggs, pouring coffee. He looked like he belonged in some thirst-trap video, not making breakfast in the house he now shared with my mom and me.
I padded in barefoot, black dress swapped for one of his old Harvard tees I’d “borrowed” from the laundry basket last night—long enough to cover my ass, but short enough that every step flashed thigh. No bra. No panties. Hair messy from sleep and scheming. I feigned innocent, big eyes behind my glasses (I’d put them on this time, just in case he threw that line again).
“I’m sorry, Professor Nathan, for
