She picked up her plate, the ceramic clinking softly as she moved toward the sink. Mike followed her, his movements fluid and predatory even when performing a mundane task.
For a moment, they stood there in the cramped, sun-drenched kitchen on a quiet Sunday afternoon, their shoulders nearly brushing. The air between them was thick, charged with a heavy, domestic intimacy, the kind that only happens when two people have stopped the exhausting performance of pretending they don't want to be closer.
The tension was a living thing, a low hum in the small space.
"Can I ask you something?" she said, her voice cutting through the silence.
She held her plate out to him, a silent invitation to bridge the gap.
He took it, his fingers grazing hers for a second longer than necessary, a deliberate, masculine touch that sent a jolt through her.
"Go ahead," he murmured, his eyes hooded, watching her reaction with that infuriating, effortless confidence.
