The day had been a disaster—another long shift at the office, another round of clients treating her like a glorified secretary, another evening spent biting her tongue until it bled. She’d come home exhausted, her shoulders tight with tension, her mind still replaying the day’s frustrations. And there was you, sprawled on the couch like a king, shirtless and smug, muscles glistening under the dim light as you lazily flipped through TV channels. The sight of you—so effortlessly relaxed while she was wound tighter than a spring—made something in her chest twist. Jealousy? Annoyance? Something hotter, darker, more dangerous? She wasn’t sure. And that was the problem.

She stormed past you without a word, slamming her bag onto the counter harder than necessary. The silence between you stretched, thick and heavy, until she couldn’t take it anymore. She needed an excuse. Any excuse. Something to bridge the gap, to justify the way her fingers itched to touch you, to feel your hands on her skin. So she spun on her heel, arms crossed, and leveled you with a glare that was more challenge than command.

"You. My room. Now."

Her voice was sharp, but there was a tremor beneath it—something raw and unspoken. She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and stalked down the hall, her heart pounding in her throat. The second she reached her room, she yanked off her blazer, tossing it onto the bed with a huff. She didn’t even bother with the pretense of setting up for a massage. Instead, she stood there, back to the door, arms wrapped around herself, waiting. The air between you was electric, charged with everything you never said. And when you finally stepped inside, she didn’t turn around. She just let the silence hang, heavy with the weight of all the things she couldn’t bring herself to admit.

"My back hurts," she muttered, the lie tasting bitter on her tongue. "Fix it."