There were moments in life that crept up on you slowly, so subtly that you didn't even realize you'd been changed until something forced you to look back and see the wreckage in your wake.
This was one of those moments.
Xander stood in front of the mirror in his room, his reflection half-shadowed by the fading light seeping through the window. His shirt clung to his back, the top buttons undone. A glass of whiskey sat untouched on the dresser. The room was silent except for the quiet hum of the central heating and the occasional rustle of the wind outside.
It had started as a game.
He remembered it clearly — the arrogance in his tone, the calculated chill in his voice as he told Cassian, "Let her stay. I'll break her down. Make her fall."
It wasn't about affection. It wasn't about her.
It was about control.
Retribution.
Power.
Because Erin Raven had been a threat. A woman who walked into the eye of a corporate scandal and somehow left the room with her dignity intact. He'd admired it. Resented it. Wanted to tear it apart just to prove that he could.
But now?
Now he couldn't remember the last time he had the upper hand.
She wasn't unraveling.
He was.
Everything about her had become a distraction. Her voice — the sharp, sarcastic lilt of it when she was annoyed. Her eyes — how they always looked like they were hiding a hundred secrets behind them. Her mouth — damn it, even the way she chewed her food annoyed him and fascinated him all at once.
He should have stayed focused.
He should've kept his distance.
He should've never made that deal.
Ten days.
It was supposed to be enough time to remind them both that this was nothing more than heat — a flame that would die out once left alone. A countdown back to reality.
But he couldn't stop watching her. Couldn't stop thinking about her.
Couldn't stop wanting her.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
He ran a hand down his face and exhaled.
This wasn't just a mistake.
It was a problem.
A knock on the door downstairs pulled him back to the present.
Dinner.
Of course.
She was still making it. Still holding up her end of the ridiculous domestic routine they'd fallen into — and that alone made his chest twist in ways he didn't want to acknowledge.
—
Later That Evening,
Xander descended the stairs slowly, his footsteps muffled by the carpet. The scent of herbs and something grilled lingered in the air, cozy and inviting. The kitchen lights were warm, the room humming softly with domestic peace — like this was a real home, not a battleground for tension and denial.
He paused in the doorway.
There she was. Back to him. Hair pulled into a lazy bun, an apron tied around her waist over her cotton pajamas. She was humming — faintly — some off-key tune he couldn't place.
He should've turned around.
He didn't.
He stepped into the kitchen, and she didn't even glance at him. "You're late," she said, her tone neutral.
"You didn't call me," he replied casually, reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge.
"I'm not your assistant right now."
"That so?" he said, taking a slow sip. "You might want to inform the roast chicken."
She rolled her eyes but he caught the edge of her smile.
It was always like this now — a battlefield made of smirks and sarcasm.
They sat opposite each other, the clink of cutlery the only sound for a while. It wasn't uncomfortable, just… braced. Like the calm before a storm.
"You're quiet," she said after a few minutes.
"I was thinking."
"That's dangerous."
He chuckled, then glanced up at her. "You worried about me?"
Her gaze held his for a beat. "Should I be?"
Xander leaned forward slightly. "Maybe."
The air shifted.
They both felt it.
He watched her cheeks flush — not a full blush, just a slight darkening near the ears. But it was enough. Enough to remind him that he wasn't imagining this.
"So…" Erin began, stabbing a potato with more aggression than necessary, "we still pretending this arrangement is working?"
He tilted his head. "I'm managing."
"Really?"
She raised a brow, a little too smug.
Xander smirked. "You're the one who got flustered over a hallway glance."
"You leaned in first."
"You didn't stop me."
"I did."
"Eventually."
Her mouth opened, then closed. No comeback. He grinned.
Erin crossed her arms. "Just don't try anything before the week is up."
There it was — that line. The one she always threw out when the tension got too thick. Like a reminder to herself more than to him. Like a lifeline.
Xander leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly, his voice dropping. "I'll behave."
She squinted at him, suspicious.
"Unless…" he added, tone silkier now, "you ask otherwise."
She blinked. Twice.
Then rolled her eyes with a scoff that didn't hide the grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "You're impossible."
"You're still here."
"Only for the roast chicken."
"Liar."
She snorted, but didn't deny it.
He studied her as she took another bite, pretending she didn't feel the heat crawling up her neck. She was trying so hard to be unaffected, to be casual — and failing miserably.
But he didn't call her out on it.
Not tonight.
They finished dinner with more teasing, some mock bickering, and long, heavy silences that spoke volumes.
And when she stood to clear the plates, he didn't stop her. Just watched her move around the kitchen like she belonged there.
Because maybe… she did.
—
Later,
Alone in his room again, Xander sat at the edge of his bed, hands clasped, staring at the floor.
Seven days left.
But it didn't feel like a countdown anymore.
It felt like a deadline.
One they both knew they wouldn't meet.
And he wasn't sure what scared him more — the idea of giving in…
Or the fact that he wanted to.