The mansion looms before me like a sleeping giant as I climb the steps to Ronan Lynch's front door. Three weeks into this six-week assignment and I still feel like an intruder in his meticulously maintained but emotionally barren home. The air inside smells of dust and expensive cologne masked with cigarette smoke.

Ronan is sprawled on the couch, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, flipping through a car magazine with deliberate disinterest. His black hair falls into his striking blue eyes, which lift briefly to acknowledge my presence before returning to the page.

"Drug test," I announce, pulling the kit from my bag. The routine is familiar now: I request, he ignores me, I persist, he eventually complies.

Today, he surprises me by setting the magazine aside and extending his hand without argument. His fingers brush mine when I pass him the swab - calloused, surprisingly warm, and I feel a jolt that has nothing to do with professionalism.

As he completes the test, his gaze lingers on my face with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "You're late," he says finally, voice lower than usual.

"Classes ran over," I reply, too aware of how close we're sitting. The silence stretches between us, charged with something I refuse to name.

When the test comes back negative, he doesn't look relieved - just resigned. "You should've called," he mutters, staring at his hands.

The unexpected concern catches me off guard. "You've never cared about my schedule before."

He meets my eyes then, stormy and unreadable. "Maybe I'm tired of your predictable bullshit, Parrish."

But his tone lacks the usual venom. Something has shifted between us in these three weeks, and I'm not sure if it's for better or worse. The air feels thick with unspoken tension as I gather the test materials.

Ronan reaches out suddenly, his hand closing around my wrist. Not roughly - just firmly, his thumb brushing the inside of my arm where my pulse races. "Stay," he says, voice barely audible.

My heart pounds in my chest. This is dangerous territory. Professional boundaries blur like watercolor in the rain. I should pull away, remind him of my role, my responsibilities.

Instead, I find myself asking, "Why?"

He releases my wrist as if burned, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. "Just... don't leave yet."

The vulnerability in his voice is disarming. As I meet his eyes again, I see the storm gathering there - the same storm I've felt building inside myself every time he's near.