Chapter 5: Do You Want To Come Up?

The shop is still dim when I practically tumble down the narrow wooden stairs from my apartment. My breath comes in short, frantic huffs as I fumble with my keys. I stayed up until 3:00 AM doodling a new collection of "Midsummer" stickers, and my alarm was absolutely no match for my exhaustion.

I jumped straight out of the shower and threw on my favorite baby pink floral dress, not even stopping to dry my hair. As I flip the sign from Closed to Open, my dark hair is still heavy and steaming with water, sending little droplets down the back of my neck and soaking into the delicate fabric.

The bell chimes.

I freeze. I don't even have my professional mask on yet. I look up, and there he is.

Roman is already standing inside, two coffee cups held in his large, scarred hands. He stops dead in his tracks. His dark gaze doesn't go to the postcards or the stickers. It goes straight to the way my hair is clumped in wet curls against my shoulders, and the way the water is creating dark, damp patches on the pink silk of my dress.

He doesn't say a word for a long, heavy moment. He just watches, completely transfixed, as a single drop of water travels from my jawline down to the pulse point at my throat.

"You're wet," he says.

His voice isn't its usual corporate steel. It's a low, gravelly vibration-thick with a sudden, raw intensity that makes the air in the shop feel twice as heavy.

"I... I overslept," I whisper, my face heating up instantly. I feel so incredibly exposed. My shyness flares as I realize how domestic, how completely undone I must look right now.

"I just got out of the shower. I didn't think anyone would be here exactly at opening."

Roman steps closer, the intoxicating scent of his cold rain and expensive soap instantly mixing with the fresh jasmine of my shampoo. He looks at the water dripping onto my collarbone, his heavy brow twitching.

"The AC is already humming," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that private, dangerous register that makes my knees shake. "You're going to catch a cold standing here in a wet dress with hair like that, Evelina."

The air in the shop feels like it's been replaced by pure static electricity. I stay perfectly still, my breath coming in shallow, quick hitches. I couldn't move if I tried; the searing intensity in Roman's eyes has pinned me completely to the spot.

He sets the coffee cups on the counter with a quiet thud, never breaking eye contact. He steps right into my personal space, his massive frame blocking out the morning light from the front window, surrounding me with his heat.

His hand rises-slow, steady, and scarred. His fingers are warm against the cool, damp skin of her neck as he reaches out to move a heavy, wet curl away from my face.

His knuckles graze my jawline, and the touch sends a violent jolt of heat straight to my core, making the damp silk of my dress feel suddenly, feverishly hot. He tucks the curl behind my ear, but his hand doesn't retreat. Instead, his thumb lingers, tracing the curve of my earlobe before resting directly against the racing pulse point at my neck.

"You're shivering," he murmurs, his voice a low, protective rumble that vibrates straight through my chest.

"I... I'm just surprised to see you so early," I manage to whisper. I look up at him, my eyes searching his. I'm not scared-I am completely mesmerized.

The harsh businessman is completely gone, replaced by a man who looks like he's discovering something fragile and miraculous. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to the damp patch on my shoulder where the pink silk clings tightly to my skin.

"Don't be," he says softly.

"I've been sitting in my car for twenty minutes waiting for that sign to turn. I didn't realize I was waiting for this."

The spell between us is thick, a heavy layer of tension that makes the quiet shop feel entirely small and private. His thumb traces the line of my jaw with a slow, agonizing deliberation that makes me feel like I might just dissolve right under his gaze. The heat of his palm against my damp skin is a stark, intoxicating contrast to the chill of the AC.

I take a shaky breath, raising my hand to tentatively touch his forearm-just enough to feel the corded, hard muscle beneath the rolled-up sleeve of his white shirt.

"Roman," I whisper, my voice breathier than I intend.

"Your coffee is going to get cold." I manage a small, shy smile, my eyes flickering down to the cups and then back up to his hooded eyes.

"And... I think I am, too."

He doesn't pull away immediately. He lets his hand linger for one more agonizing heartbeat, his gaze dropping to my lips before he finally, slowly, let his arm drop to his side. The loss of his warmth is instant and freezing.

"Right," he says, his voice a low, roughened rasp. He clears his throat, trying to pull his mask back on, though his eyes remain incredibly dark.

"The coffee. And the cold."

He picks up the cups and gestures toward the small velvet chair in the window.

"Sit," he commands, though it's softer this time-more of a plea than an order.

"Drink. I'll turn the AC down. If you're going to be my favorite mystery, I'd prefer you didn't do it while sneezing."

My face catches fire again at the word favorite, but I do as I'm told.

The space in the window seat is already small, but with Roman filling most of it, the invitation feels like a violent pull straight into his private orbit. I don't hesitate. I round the counter and sink into the tight space right beside him.

I am so incredibly close to him now that the heat radiating off his crisp white shirt feels like a physical weight pressing against me. The air between us tastes like expensive roasted espresso and the faint, lingering scent of his cold rain and expensive soap.

Then, the quiet of the shop is broken by a sound that feels far too intimate for a sunny morning.

As Roman tilts his head back to finish his coffee, I watch the sharp, rhythmic movement of his throat. I can hear the distinct, low swallowing sounds-the quiet, heavy "work" of his massive body just inches from my ear. There is something so raw, so effortlessly masculine about it. It's a fierce reminder of the grit beneath that tailored vest.

The sound literally vibrates through the tiny space between us. A sudden, intense wave of heat flushes through my entire body, making my breath catch hard in my lungs. Oh God.

I set my empty cup down on the small table, my heart doing a frantic, wild dance against my ribs. I look up at this towering, scarred Titan and realize with absolute certainty that I don't want the morning to end. I don't want him to walk out that door and turn back into a cold stranger.

I stand up, the pink silk of my dress still clinging slightly to my skin as I tuck a wet lock of hair behind my ear.

"I... I can't stay like this," I say, my voice small but steady.

"I need to go upstairs. To dry my hair and... change."

Roman nods slowly, his heavy brow twitching as he reaches for his own cup.

"Of course. I should get to-"

"Do you want to come up?"

The question hangs in the air like a sudden lightning strike. I feel the blood rush violently to my face, my shyness screaming at me to take it back, but I keep my gaze locked fiercely onto his.

"I mean, just for a few minutes. While I get ready. You can... see where the doodles actually happen."

Roman freezes. His hand, halfway to the counter, goes completely rigid. He looks at the narrow wooden staircase in the corner of the shop, and then looks back at me. The silence is so deep I can hear the sharp, rhythmic swallow he makes as he takes in the gravity of what I just asked.

"Upstairs," he repeats, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly register that makes my toes curl.

"Evelina, you have no idea what you're asking."

"I think I do," I whisper, my eyes defiant and bright.

Roman's Diary Entry

Thursday

Blush and Paper

She asked. She actually asked.

I've broken into high-security vaults. I've sat in boardrooms that control the fate of thousands. But looking at that narrow wooden staircase felt like staring at the gates of a world I'm not supposed to touch. She invited me into her home. Her space. The place where she's entirely vulnerable.

I told her she didn't know what she was asking. What I meant was: If I go up those stairs, I'm never going to want to come back down. I'm a man made of grit and secrets, and she's offering me lace and sunlight. My heart is beating so hard I'm surprised she can't see it thudding straight through my vest.

I'm going up.

The heart wants what it wants.