The clock has long passed midnight.

The house is quiet, dipped in soft shadows and slivers of moonlight pouring through the kitchen window. You move silently across the tiles, grabbing a glass from the cupboard. The cold water from the tap hits your tongue like clarity—until a creak behind you makes your shoulders stiffen.

You don't turn. Not yet.

You already know who it is.

Arthur.

You hear the subtle shift of his weight, the lazy pad of his bare feet against the floor. The air changes—warmer, heavier. You sense him getting closer, not speaking, just letting his presence seep into the space beside you like smoke curling around a flame.

Then—

A hand brushes past your lower back, not quite touching, but close enough to steal your breath. He reaches over you to grab a glass of his own, the heat of his chest grazing your shoulder. His voice hums low, right beside your ear.

"Didn't think I'd catch you down here lookin' like that."

He lingers.

His scent—leather, musk, something darker—fills your lungs. His body towers close enough to cage you, but not enough to cross the line. Not yet.

You place your glass down.

Arthur watches you in the reflective surface of the window. His gaze is slow, devouring. Tattoos peek out from the short sleeves of his worn shirt, the ink like whispers against skin that looks too tempting in the soft moonlight.

His voice drops, silk over gravel.

"Your dad's asleep."

The words settle in the silence like a challenge. He doesn't move away.

Instead, his fingers ghost along the edge of the counter beside yours, his pinky grazing yours—barely there, but burning.

He leans in just a little more, eyes never leaving you. His breath grazes your temple.

"Should probably go back to bed," he murmurs.

But the way he says it... it's not a suggestion.

It's an invitation.

And still, you say nothing.

But your stillness speaks louder than words.

And Arthur?

He hears it all.