3
Alina
The sharp morning light pierces through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a knife, slicing into my consciousness and pulling me from the darkness of sleep.
I blink against the intrusion, my eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar surroundings. Rafe’s bed, cold and empty beside me, leaves me feeling disoriented as memories of last night’s events flood back.
His kiss. God, that kiss. Possessive, unyielding, and intoxicating. My chest tightens with a mix of anger and reluctant longing. Tension had filled the air as we laid side by side, leaving me hyper-aware of every breath and shift in the bed throughout the night.
I push myself up, my muscles protesting the lack of rest, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The cool hardwood floor greets my bare feet as I stand, forcing my way forward to face the day.
Rafe’s sleek bathroom is a study in precision, the steam-filled space far too perfect to feel comforting. I wrap myself in one of his plush towels, my fingers shaking as I reach for my bag. With relief, I find fresh underwear, socks, a pair of yoga pants, and a tank top. I towel dry my hair aggressively, throwing it into a messy bun, then brush my teeth and wash my face.
“Get it together,” I mumble to my reflection in the mirror, the woman staring back at me a stranger. The tension in my shoulders begs to be released, but there’s no time for that now. I need to gain control of this situation, or at least find some small semblance of it.
I slip out of the bedroom and wander the unfamiliar territory of his penthouse. The sleek, minimalist design feels cold and unwelcoming, but it’s the sterile kitchen that truly leaves me uneasy. This is a place where food should be prepared with love, and yet there’s no sign of life or warmth in its immaculate surfaces.
I can’t stand the thought of being idle, so I rummage through pristine cabinets for ingredients. To my surprise, I find just enough to bake something simple—bread. Baking has always been my solace, the only thing that grounds me when everything else seems to be spinning out of control.
I set to work, kneading the dough with force, pouring all my frustration into the repetitive motion. Each push and fold of the dough helps clear my head, even if just a little.
“Didn’t expect to find you here, baking,” Rafe’s deep voice cuts through the silence, startling me. I look up to see him shirtless, wearing only gray sweatpants, sitting low on his hips.
His chest glistens with sweat, and his hair is damp, clinging to his forehead. My breath hitches as I take in the sight of his toned chest and inked arms, but I quickly refocus on the dough, refusing to let him see how much he affects me.
“Been working out?” I ask, attempting nonchalance.
“Something like that.” He leans casually against the counter, watching me work with an amused smirk. “You’re quite the baker.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish this in peace.”
“By all means,” Rafe smirks, pushing away from the counter. “Enjoy your baking, Alina. I’m going to shower.”
As he strides away, I can’t help but watch the play of muscles in his back. My hands tremble slightly as I return to kneading the dough, trying to shake off the image of his sweat-slicked skin and the way it made my body ache with a desire I refuse to acknowledge.
“Focus,” I whisper fiercely, willing myself to block out everything else and concentrate on the simple task before me. But no matter how hard I try, Rafe’s presence lingers, an insidious power that threatens to consume me whole.
The scent of freshly baked bread fills the kitchen, enveloping me in a comforting warmth that almost makes me forget where I am. I slide the steaming loaf onto a cooling rack, my hands steady as I work.
“Smells delicious,” Rafe’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife, making me jump. He stands in the doorway, freshly showered and still shirtless, his sculpted chest framed by the dark jeans he’s slipped into. My eyes betray me, drinking in the sight of him before I force them back to the bread.
“Breakfast’s ready,” I say curtly, slicing the loaf and placing it on a plate. We sit at the sleek kitchen island, the silence between us heavy and suffocating. Unable to bear it any longer, I start asking questions about his life, searching for some kind of connection.
“So, umm… what do you do for your family?” I ask, breaking the bread with my hands, the warmth seeping into my fingers.
“Stuff.” His one-word answer makes me grit my teeth, but I press on.
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“Varied.”
“What about friends?”
“Few.”
“Rafe,” I snap, unable to contain my frustration. “If you’re not going to give me any decent answers, you could at least ask me questions. We’re stuck together for now, so can’t we at least try to have a conversation?”
He smirks, leaning back in his chair. “I already know everything worth knowing about you, Alina.”
