Page 15 of His Orders

I shuffle to the door, pulling the robe tighter around me as I step into the hallway. The stairs creak as I move down, the kind of noise that belongs in an old house where the walls remember everything. I wince, walking lighter, trying not to think about what ghosts might be listening.

I round the corner into the living room, and that’s when I see him.

Ethan.On my couch.

I freeze. Why is he still here?

He’s stretched out, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting across his stomach. The blanket he must have grabbed at some point has slipped, half pooled onto the floor, baring the full length of his torso to the early light. And what a torso it is.

It should be illegal to look that good while unconscious. The sharp lines of his chest, the taut definition of muscle leading down to the band of his sweats, the way his dark lashes rest against his cheekbones—it’s all too much.

Jesus.I swallow hard, willing my heart rate to slow.This is fine. Just a man. A very attractive, very naked-from-the-waist-up man. I can handle this.

Except I can’t.

Because the room is too still, too intimate, too full of something I didn’t invite but can’t seem to escape. Last night was supposed to be reckless, a single moment where I let go, where I grabbed at something real for once instead of running from it.

But now, in the daylight, I see the danger in this.

Ethan doesn’t do casual. He is controlled, disciplined, the kind of man who doesn’t let things slip through his fingers once he’s decided they belong to him. Even in sleep, his fingers twitch, curling like they’re searching for something that isn’t there.

The problem is that I liked last night too much.

Because I’ve been here before, haven’t I? Standing at the edge of something that looks like desire but feels like a leash. I’ve known what it’s like to be possessed, to be held onto too tightly, to mistake control for love.

Ethan is not Daniel. Iknowthat.

But my body doesn’t care. My body only understands survival, and right now, every inch of me is screaming that I need to run.

I take a slow step back. The floorboard betrays me, creaking under my weight.

Ethan stirs.

I hold my breath, watching as his brow furrows slightly, his chest rising with a deeper inhale. His fingers flex, like he can feel me watching.

Nope. Not doing this.

I spin on my heel and make a beeline for the kitchen.

The second I step inside, I grip the counter and let out a sharp exhale.Breathe. Focus. Make the damn tea.

I move through the motions automatically. Fill the kettle. Set it on the stove. Measure out the tea leaves. The scents of cinnamon and cardamom curl into the air, wrapping around me like something warm, something familiar. I tell myself to focus on that instead.

Not on the man asleep in the next room.

Not on the ghost of his hands still on my skin.

Not on the way my fingers tremble slightly as I pour the water, as if some part of me already knows I’ll never be able to forget last night.

Just as I reach for the pan to heat the milk, my fingers slip, and it crashes onto the stovetop with a loud, metallic clatter that shatters the fragile morning quiet.

“Shit.” I wince, scrambling to steady it, my heart lurching in my chest as the sound echoes through the kitchen.

Before I can fully recover, a low, rich baritone hums from behind me, smooth and edged with sleep.

“Good morning.”

I freeze.

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