Phoebe's POV
I moved toward Harold, successfully trapping the usually unflappable man against his bedroom door. He was wearing a black shirt today that somehow perfectly complemented my white one—like we'd planned to match. My accidental choice made it look like I'd deliberately picked out couple's shirts just to mess with him.
As I got closer, I noticed his rolled-up sleeves showing off those lean, muscled forearms. The veins were more pronounced now, tension rippling through him as he watched me approach. His voice came out rough, almost strained: "Babe, don't play with fire."
But I wasn't backing down. I stepped even closer, leaving barely any space between us—maybe the width of a fist. Since it was still daylight and I knew he wouldn't try anything too bold, I put on my most innocent voice and teased, "Me? When have I ever flirted with you?"
