Chapter Three
1106 Words
LENA
I sank instantly into my bed.
I couldn’t get the note out of my head.
It wasn’t just the words. It was the way they felt like they’d crawled into my brain and set up camp there, right behind my eyes, behind my ribs, in the hollow of my stomach.
I could still feel his fingers brushing mine earlier, the heat of his palm, the smirk he’d held like it was a secret just for me.
****
I’d tried to focus on my chores the next morning. I told myself, Don’t think about it. Don’t blush, don’t overheat, just wash the dishes.
But every time I dipped my hands into the warm water, I saw his shoulders in my mind, felt his stare sliding down me again, steady and patient, like he was waiting for me to take apart.
The front door clicked open, and my stomach flipped. Chloe.
“Lena! Babe, I had to—” she burst into the kitchen, hair messy, grin wide, eyes sparkling with some mix of excitement and mischief. I froze mid-scrub, water dripping from my hands.
“You’re back early,” I said cautiously, tugging a towel around my wet hair.
“Yeah, you know me. Couldn’t stay away,” she said, all sugar and heat. She gave me a once-over and then, eyes twinkling, said, “You’re… thrown off.”
I groaned and buried my face in my hands. “I’m not—”
“Oh, come on,” she teased, stepping closer, voice low, merciless. “Your cheeks are glowing. And stop breathing like that. It’s unnatural.”
I glared. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. Her smirk widened when she caught my hesitation. “Come on, spill it. What’s got Lena Carter losing her mind this time?”
I tried to focus on the suds in my hands, but her words made it impossible. I was losing my mind. And the worst part was, it wasn’t her fault. It was him.
Mark.
I could feel him before I even saw him—his presence was like a vibration running through the house.
I turned slowly, heart hammering, and there he was, standing at the edge of the kitchen doorway, coffee in hand, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the muscle and vein along his forearms. Wet hair still falling in a few rebellious strands.
“Huh-hey,” I said, voice tight.
He raised a brow, the faintest smirk teasing the corner of his mouth. “Chloe’s back?”
I flinched, and Chloe’s grin widened. “Hey, Mark,” she said sweetly, walking toward him like she owned the floor.
My chest tightened.
“Hi,” he said, voice smooth, calm, deadly in the way that made me flush. His stare drifted past her, past the bright, teasing energy she brought, and landed squarely back on me.
Chloe noticed it too. The way I stiffened, the way my jaw clenched. And I hated that she noticed. But worse—I hated that she didn’t seem embarrassed at all. In fact, she seemed to enjoy watching me fidget.
Mark lifted his coffee, swirling it, eyes still locked on mine. That look—calm, assessing, almost patient—sent shivers down my spine.
I knew he saw it. I knew he enjoyed it.
“I’ll help,” Chloe said suddenly, gesturing to the coffee machine. She stepped closer to him, brushing her hand against his arm. And I saw it again. He let her. He smiled politely, nodded, but when he moved, his gaze snapped back to me.
I pressed my hands to my face and muttered under my breath, “f**k, f**k, fuck.”
The rest of the day was a series of stolen glances and ‘accidental’ touches that weren’t so accidental.
Carrying laundry down the hall, I nearly ran into him. Our shoulders brushed—just the faintest pressure, just long enough to make my knees weak. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to step back. I wanted not to feel what I felt.
But when I looked up, he was eyeing, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Careful,” he said, voice low and deliberate, almost a purr. “Don’t want to hurt yourself.”
I swallowed hard. Couldn’t. Breathe. Speak. Move.
And then Chloe’s voice came from behind me, teasing, merciless: “Need a hand, Lena? Don’t tell me you’re so clumsy you can’t even carry laundry.”
I whirled to glare at her, but she was laughing, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.
Funny.
By evening, I was a mess.
My thoughts refused to cooperate. I tried to watch TV, scroll my phone, distract myself with anything, but his voice from the hall, the faint scrape of his shoes on the floorboards, the smell of him—clean, expensive cologne—everything drew me back.
And Chloe? Chloe was now fully aware, teasing me, leaning casually against the kitchen island, sipping her wine like she was daring me to look.
And I did look. Every time.
Every glance was a fight. Every brush of his sleeve was torture. And I couldn’t help imagining what it would feel like if he touched me… really touched me.
I forced myself to bed early, hoping sleep would offer an escape. It didn’t.
The note, of course, was still in my mind.
“Button up next time. Or don’t.”
The memory of it crawling under my skin made my body hum.
I was disrupted by the softest creak of the floorboards outside my open door.
I lifted my head, and there he was—Mark, in the dim light, staring. My eyes locked on him, and then I saw it—hard, straining through his jeans, a damn invitation.
My breath hitched, a shiver crawling down me. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t. His gaze pinned me, and suddenly all I could feel was heat, wetness, and that desperate pull I wasn’t supposed to want.
“I thought I’d check if my message was… received,” he murmured, stepping closer. Just the faintest brush of his hand on the doorframe sent a spark crawling across my skin.
He didn’t move any closer, not yet. Just stood there, letting me stew in every filthy, impossible thought I’d been trying to bury all day.
And then—just before leaving—he winked.
Like he knew. Like he liked it. f**k.
Damn you, Mark.
Damn you for making me ache, for making my own skin burn with want every single time you’re near.
- Writer
