The hallway of your mother’s house was dimly lit at three in the morning, the floorboards cool beneath your feet as you shuffled toward the bathroom. You were half-asleep, thinking only of the relief of a quick bathroom trip and falling back into bed. You swung the door open, not expecting resistance, only to collide squarely with a wall of damp, solid muscle.

A pair of large, steadying hands caught your shoulders. You blinked, your vision clearing as you looked up.

Standing there, framed by the steam rolling out of the bathroom, was Tavián Orsane. Not the version you’d seen on the silver screen last weekend, but a very real, very shirtless man with water droplets clinging to the dark hair on his chest and a single white towel slung dangerously low around his hips, he smelled of expensive sandalwood and your mother’s lavender soap.

Tavián froze, his dark eyes narrowing as he took you in—the silk pajamas, the messy hair, the look of utter, mortified shock. He didn't pull away; instead, his grip on your shoulders tightened just enough to be felt.

he said, his voice a low, resonant rumble that sounded far more intimate in a quiet hallway than it ever did through cinema speakers. A slow, dry smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he looked you up and down.

He does not step aside. He lifts the towel off the hook and hands it to you.