Nick stood barefoot in the kitchen, wearing only his joggers, the morning sunlight tracing the sharp cut of his back and the waistband that hung just a little too low. Freya stood behind him, watching in silence. She should've walked away. Instead, she stayed, quietly sipping her tea, letting the steam fog her glasses while her thoughts were anything but cloudy.
His presence filled the space differently now. It wasn't just her home anymore—it was a charged atmosphere, dense with things unspoken and glances stretched too long.
"You always watch me like that?" Nick asked, turning around with that crooked smirk.
Freya arched a brow. "Like what?"
"Like I'm the first sunrise you've seen in years," he teased.
She chuckled, but her fingers tightened slightly around the mug. "That confident, huh?"
Nick stepped closer, his bare chest warm and distracting. "I don't think confidence is the problem here."
Freya met his gaze, holding it for longer than she meant to. "Then what is?"
"The problem is…" he paused, lifting a hand and running a knuckle down the side of her arm so lightly it felt like a brush of air, "you haven't told me to stop yet."
She should have. But instead, her skin burned under his touch, the tension between them pulsing like a heartbeat.
---
Freya had tried to escape to the garden. A book in hand, sunglasses on, pretending the air was cool enough to focus. It wasn't. Especially not when Nick walked out shirtless again, a towel over his shoulder, glistening from his workout.
"Planning to distract me all day?" she asked.
He dropped onto the lounger beside her. "Only if it's working."
"It's definitely something," she muttered.
There was a silence—comfortable, intimate, and dangerous. Freya turned a page in her book, but her eyes kept drifting. Nick reached out, tugging gently at her sunglasses, revealing the look she thought she'd hidden.
"Caught," he murmured.
She tilted her head. "You like playing with fire, don't you?"
"I like what fire does to you."
His words settled in her like a spark on dry leaves. She shifted in her seat, thighs brushing as her sundress rode up slightly with the heat and posture.
Nick leaned in, his voice low. "If I moved closer right now… would you let me?"
Freya didn't move, but her lips parted slightly, breath shallow. The desire she'd been suppressing curled like smoke in her lungs.
She finally whispered, "Try me."
---
By evening, the air between them was thick. Freya poured them each a glass of wine, hands slightly trembling as she handed his over.
Nick took it, fingers grazing hers purposefully. "You always wear these silk robes in the evening?"
She smirked. "Only when I want to make someone squirm."
He took a slow sip. "It's working."
She turned to face him, the robe dipping at the neckline just enough to draw his eyes. "You're not used to older women teasing you like this, are you?"
"I'm not used to wanting someone this badly," he said honestly.
Freya walked past him, the brush of her hip grazing his leg. "Then what are you going to do about it?"
Nick stood, placing his glass down with finality. "Whatever you'll let me."
Their proximity crackled with heat. He stepped behind her, his hands just grazing her waist—not bold, not invasive, but enough to make her skin rise.
"Say when," he whispered.
But Freya didn't say anything. She only leaned back, just enough to let him know that her silence was permission.
He kissed her neck—slowly, reverently—and her eyes fluttered shut.
---
Clothes remained on. Boundaries remained intact. But that night, when they brushed hands on the couch, when his thigh pressed against hers, and when he whispered something filthy against her ear that made her gasp and walk away to her bedroom trembling—Freya realized she'd already started surrendering.
Whatever was building between them, it wasn't going to wait much longer.