Leighton spent the afternoon in her room, applying to more jobs and trying not to replay Noah's text message over and over in her head.

*They're idiots.*

Two words shouldn't matter this much.

Around five, her stomach reminded her she'd only eaten toast all day. She ventured downstairs, hoping to grab something quick and escape back to her room before anyone noticed.

The kitchen was occupied.

Noah stood at the island, going through a stack of papers. He'd showered since this morning. His hair was still damp, pushed back from his face. He wore a black t-shirt and jeans, barefoot again. She was starting to think he never wore shoes in the house.

He looked up when she entered. "Hey."

"Hi." She moved toward the fridge, trying to act casual. Like this morning hadn't happened. Like she hadn't been caught watching him work out like some kind of stalker.

"We need to talk."

She froze, her hand on the fridge door. "About what?"

"Ground rules."

"Oh." She turned to face him. "Okay."

He set down the papers and crossed his arms. "My office is off-limits. Always. Even if the door's open. Don't go in there unless I specifically invite you."

"I already apologized for that."

"I know. This is me making sure it doesn't happen again." His voice was firm. Professional. Like he was running a business meeting. "Second, the gym. Same rule. Don't come in while I'm working out."

Her face heated. "I wasn't trying to..."

"Third, my bedroom. That should be obvious, but I'm saying it anyway. Stay out."

"Are you done?" The words came out sharper than she intended.

His eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"

"Are you done treating me like a child who doesn't know how to respect boundaries?"

"I'm establishing expectations."

"You're making a list of all the ways I'm not allowed to exist in your space." She crossed her own arms, mirroring his stance. "I get it. You don't want me here. You've made that pretty clear. But I'm not eight years old anymore, Noah. You don't need to lecture me about not touching your stuff or wandering into rooms I shouldn't."

Something flickered in his eyes. He pushed off the island and moved toward her, closing the distance between them. She held her ground, even though every instinct told her to step back.

He stopped a foot away. Near enough that she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

"No," he said quietly. "You're not eight anymore."

The way he said it made her breath catch. His eyes traveled down her face, lingering on her mouth, then lower. Taking in the curve of her neck. The way her t-shirt fit. How her jeans hugged her hips.

When his gaze came back to hers, there was heat in it. Dark and dangerous.

"That's the problem," he added.

She couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Her heart pounded so hard she was sure he could hear it.

"What's the problem?" she managed.

"You. Here. In my house." He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it. "Chloe's best friend. Twenty-three years old. Completely off-limits."

"I didn't ask to be here."

"I know."

"And I'm not trying to... I don't..." She struggled to find words. "I'm just trying to stay out of your way until I can leave."

"That's another rule." His voice had an edge now. "Stop trying to be invisible. It's not working."

"What do you want from me?"

"I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face. "That's the problem. I don't know what I want, and that's not something I'm used to."

They stood there, the tension between them thick enough to cut. Leighton's skin felt too tight. Her mouth is too dry. She wanted to move closer and run away at the same time.

"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I don't know what I want either."

His jaw clenched. "Yes, you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I see the way you look at me. Like I'm something you want but know you can't have." He leaned in slightly, and she caught the scent of his soap. "You've been looking at me like that since you were sixteen."

Her face burned. "I wasn't..."

"You were. At Chloe's birthday party. You wore a blue dress. You stood in the corner all night, watching me."

She remembered that party. Remembered the dress. Remembered how she'd felt when Noah had walked in with some blonde model on his arm. Remembered spending the whole night wishing she was brave enough to talk to him.

"I had a crush on you," she admitted. "So what? Half the girls in Chloe's school had crushes on you. It didn't mean anything."

"Didn't it?"

"No. I was a kid. Kids get crushes. They grow out of them."

"Did you? Grow out of it?"

The question hung between them. She should lie. Should tell him yes, of course, she was over it. That she didn't feel anything when he looked at her. That her heart didn't race when he got close.

But she was tired of lying.

"I don't know," she said. "Did you grow out of treating every woman like a temporary distraction?"

His expression darkened. "That's not fair."

"Neither is calling me out for how I look at you when you've been doing the same thing to me since I got here."

"I haven't..."

"You have. In the kitchen last night. In the gym this morning. Right now." She took a step closer, emboldened by her own anger. "So don't act like I'm the only one feeling something I shouldn't."

His hand came up, catching her chin. Tilting her face up to his. "You're right. I have been looking. Want to know what I see?"

She couldn't breathe. "What?"

"Trouble. The kind I swore I was done with." His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, and she shivered. "The kind that makes me want to break every one of my own rules."

"Then maybe you shouldn't make so many rules."

For a second, she thought he might kiss her. His eyes dropped to her mouth. His hand tightened on her chin. She could feel the heat radiating off his body.

Then he let go and stepped back, breaking the spell.

"Two more rules," he said, his voice rough. "Stay out of trouble. And stay out of my head."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Figure it out."

He grabbed his papers and walked out, leaving her standing alone in the kitchen, her whole body trembling.

She touched her lips where his thumb had been. Her skin still tingled from his touch.

This was bad. This was so much worse than a childhood crush. This was a real attraction. Real chemistry. The kind that could ruin everything.

Her phone buzzed. Chloe.

*Dinner tomorrow night? I'm bringing Thai food. Miss you!*

Guilt crashed over her. Chloe. Her best friend. Who had specifically warned her years ago that Noah was off-limits. Who had saved her from being homeless? Who trusted her?

She typed back quickly.

*Miss you too. Can't wait.*

She set the phone down and pressed her hands to her face. She needed to get it together. Needed to stop whatever this was before it went any further.

But when she closed her eyes, all she could feel was his thumb on her lip. All she could hear was his voice saying *You're trouble*.

And the worst part? She wanted to be. She wanted to be the kind of trouble that made Noah Knight break his own rules.

She grabbed a protein bar from the pantry and headed back to her room. As she passed his office, she heard him inside. Talking on the phone. His voice was calm and controlled. Completely different from how he'd sounded in the kitchen.

How many versions of himself did he have? The cold businessman who'd told her two weeks maximum. The gym rat who caught her watching. The man who texted her about rejections. The one who'd just touched her face like he wanted to do more.

Which one was real?

Maybe they all were. Maybe Noah Knight was just as complicated and messed up as she was.

That should have been comforting.

Instead, it just made her want him more.

She locked her door and climbed into bed, even though it was barely six. Tomorrow Chloe would be here. Tomorrow she'd have to pretend everything was fine. That nothing had happened. That she and Noah were just two people sharing a house, nothing more.

She could do that. She'd been pretending her whole life.

What was one more lie?

Leighton woke up to her phone buzzing. A text from Chloe.

*Emergency at work. Can't do dinner tonight. Rain check? I'm so sorry!*

Disappointment settled in her chest, followed quickly by relief she didn't want to examine too closely.

*No worries. We'll do it another time.*

She set her phone down and stared at the ceiling. Another day in this house. Another day of avoiding Noah while simultaneously wanting to find him.

This was getting ridiculous.

She needed to do laundry. She'd been rewearing the same few outfits all week, and everything was starting to smell like desperation and bad decisions.

The laundry room took twenty minutes to find. Of course it did. This house was designed to make her look stupid.

She threw everything in. All her clothes, her sheets, towels. Might as well do it all at once. She added detergent and started the machine, then headed back upstairs in the tank top and shorts she'd slept in.

An hour later, she went back down to move things to the dryer.

The machine was still running.

She stared at it. Checked the settings. Heavy wash cycle. Two hours total.

Perfect. Just perfect.

She trudged back upstairs. She could wait it out in her room. Except her room was freezing. The air conditioning had kicked into overdrive, and she was already shivering in her thin tank top.

She needed something warm. A hoodie. A blanket. Anything.

Her eyes landed on the door across the hall. Noah's room.

Absolutely not. That was literally rule number three. Stay out of his bedroom.

But he wasn't home. She'd heard him leave an hour ago, talking on the phone about meetings and contracts. He'd be gone for hours. He'd never know.

Just in and out. Grab a sweatshirt or something. Put it back before he got home.

She opened his door slowly, half expecting an alarm to go off.

The room was immaculate. King-size bed with dark gray sheets, perfectly made. Modern furniture, all clean lines. The space smelled like him. That expensive cologne or body wash or whatever it was that made her brain go fuzzy.

His closet was huge. Rows of suits, dress shirts, perfectly organized by color. She pushed past them to the casual section. Found a white button-down shirt that looked soft and worn.

Perfect.

She pulled it on over her tank top. It fell to mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging past her hands. She rolled them up and headed back to her room.

Except her room was still freezing.

The kitchen, she decided. She'd make tea. Wait down there until her clothes were done.

She padded downstairs in Noah's shirt and her bare feet. The house was quiet. Peaceful, even. She could almost pretend it was hers. That she belonged here.

She put the kettle on and rummaged through the tea selection. Someone had expensive taste. Everything was loose-leaf and imported and probably cost more than her old grocery budget.

The front door opened.

Her head snapped up. No. He wasn't supposed to be back yet.

Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer.

Noah appeared in the kitchen doorway and stopped dead.

His eyes traveled down her body. Slowly. Taking in the white shirt. Her bare legs. Her bare feet. His shirt, hanging off her shoulder where she'd apparently missed a button.

"Hi," she said weakly.

He didn't respond. Just stared at her, his jaw tight.

"I can explain."

"You're wearing my shirt."

"My clothes are in the wash. Everything. I didn't have anything clean and I was cold, so I..." She trailed off. His expression hadn't changed. "I'm sorry. I know you said not to go in your room. I'll take it off right now."

"Don't."

The word came out rough. Almost harsh.

She froze. "What?"

"Don't take it off." He set his briefcase down by the door, his movements careful. Controlled. "Not here."

"Oh." Her face burned. "Right. I'll just go upstairs and..."

"How long until your clothes are done?"

"An hour, maybe?"

He nodded once. Then he moved into the kitchen, giving her a wide berth. Like he didn't trust himself to get too close.

He went to the fridge and pulled out a water bottle. Drank half of it in one go. His hand gripped the bottle tight enough that his knuckles went white.

The kettle whistled. Leighton jumped, then turned to grab it. She poured water over the tea bag, hyperaware of Noah behind her. Of the way his shirt shifted as she moved. Of how little she was wearing underneath it.

"Why are you home early?" she asked, just to fill the silence.

"Meeting got canceled."

"Oh."

More silence. She could feel his eyes on her back. Could practically feel the weight of his gaze.

She turned around, holding her mug like a shield. He was leaning against the far counter, arms crossed. His eyes were dark. Intense.

"Stop looking at me like that," she said.

"Like what?"

"Like you're thinking things you shouldn't be thinking."

"I could say the same to you."

"I'm not..."

"You are." He pushed off the counter. "You've been looking at me like that since you got here. Like you want something from me."

"I don't want anything from you."

"Liar."

The word hung between them. Challenge and accusation and something else she couldn't name.

"Fine," she said. "Maybe I do. So what? Nothing's going to happen. You've made that clear."

"Have I?"

"You listed off your rules yesterday. Stay out of your space. Stay out of your head. Stay away from you."

"I don't remember saying that last part."

"It was implied."

He moved closer. Not much. Just a step. But it felt like the distance between them had shrunk by miles.

"You want to know what I was thinking?" he asked quietly.

"No."

"Liar," he said again. "You want to know. You're dying to know."

She set down her mug before she dropped it. "Noah..."

"I was thinking about how that's my favorite shirt. I've had it for five years. Worn it a hundred times." Another step closer. "And now I'm never going to be able to wear it again without thinking about this. About you in my kitchen, wearing nothing but my shirt, looking at me like you want me to break all my own rules."

Her breath caught. "I'm not..."

"Your clothes aren't in the wash."

"What?"

"You heard me." His eyes bore into hers. "You could have worn your tank top and shorts. Could have grabbed a blanket from the linen closet. Could have done a dozen other things. But you went into my room and took my shirt."

"I was cold."

"Bullshit. You wanted to see what I'd do if I found you wearing it."

"That's not true."

"Then why are you still standing here?" He took another step. Close enough now that she could see the muscle ticking in his jaw. "If you really didn't want this, you'd already be upstairs. But you're not moving. Because you want to know what happens next."

"Nothing happens next." Her voice came out breathy. Unconvincing. "You're Chloe's brother. I'm her best friend. Nothing can happen."

"I know."

"So we should stop. Right now. Before we do something stupid."

"I know," he said again.

But neither of them moved.

The air between them felt electric. Dangerous. Like one wrong move would make something explode.

His eyes dropped to her mouth. Lingered there. She could see him fighting with himself. See the moment he decided to leave.

He stepped back. Grabbed his briefcase. "Your clothes should be done soon. You should go check on them."

"Noah..."

"Go, Leighton."

It wasn't a request.

She went.

She practically ran up the stairs, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She could still feel his eyes on her. Could still hear the rough edge in his voice when he'd said *my favorite shirt*.

She stopped outside his bedroom door. The shirt felt different now. Like it was touching her everywhere. Like he was touching her.

She should take it off. Should put it back and pretend this never happened.

Instead, she went to her room and sat on the bed, pulling the collar up to her face. It smelled like him. Like that expensive scent that made her head spin.

She was in so much trouble.

Her phone buzzed. Noah.

*Keep the shirt.*

She stared at the message. Typed back: *What?*

*Keep it. I meant what I said. I can't wear it anymore without thinking about this. About you.*

*Noah, we can't...*

*I know. Trust me, I know. But I'm done pretending I don't notice you. Done pretending I don't want things I shouldn't want.*

*What are we doing?*

*I don't know. But I'm tired of lying about it.*

She clutched the phone to her chest. This was a terrible idea. The worst idea. It would ruin everything with Chloe. Would blow up in both their faces.

But god, she wanted it anyway.

She wanted him anyway.

*Me too,* she typed. Then, before she could overthink it: *I'm tired of pretending too.*

His response came immediately.

*Then stop.*

Two words. Two words that felt like permission and warning all at once.

She lay back on the bed, still wearing his shirt, and wondered how she'd gotten here. How she'd gone from fired and homeless to living in Noah Knight's house, texting him about things they shouldn't want.

Her life was a mess.

But for the first time in weeks, she didn't want to be anywhere else.

Leighton got another interview request two days later. A marketing firm downtown. Better pay than her last job. Actual benefits. Room for growth.

She needed this.

The interview was scheduled for two in the afternoon. She set up in the morning room again, her laptop charged, her notes organized. Professional blazer over a nice top. Hair and makeup perfect. She looked competent. Put together. Like someone you'd want to hire.

She joined the call at 2:30.  

Three people appeared on screen. The creative director, the HR manager, and someone whose title she missed because her internet connection stuttered.

"Can you hear us?" the creative director asked.

"Yes. Sorry. Connection issue."

"No problem. Let's get started."

The first ten minutes went fine. Standard questions about her experience, her design process. She gave good answers. Smiled. Made eye contact with the camera.

Then they asked to see her portfolio.

"Of course." She shared her screen, pulling up her website. "I've worked on branding projects for startups, small businesses, a few nonprofits..."

The page loaded. Sort of. Half the images appeared. The rest were broken links.

Her stomach dropped.

"I'm sorry, let me refresh." She reloaded the page. Same problem. "This was working this morning, I don't..."

"Take your time," the HR manager said, but her smile looked forced.

Leighton's hands shook as she tried her backup portfolio on Behance. That loaded, thank god. She walked them through her projects, trying to sound confident despite the panic clawing at her throat.

"These are nice," the creative director said. "But they're all pretty similar. Safe choices. What about something that pushes boundaries? Shows real creative risk?"

"I have some experimental work..." She clicked to another page. Another broken link. "I'm so sorry. My website is apparently having issues."

"We can look at it later," the creative director said, but his tone said they wouldn't.

The rest of the interview was torture. Her internet kept cutting in and out. She stumbled over answers. At one point, her video froze mid-sentence, and she had to reconnect.

"We'll be in touch," they said at the end.

Translation: don't hold your breath.

The call ended. Leighton stared at her screen, at her stupid broken portfolio, and felt something crack open inside her chest.

She'd been so careful. Had checked everything this morning. Had prepared for days.

And she'd still failed.

The tears came fast and hot. She pressed her hands to her face, trying to hold them back, but they wouldn't stop.

This was it. The final straw. Getting fired, evicted, living in someone else's house, rejection after rejection, and now this. Now blowing the one good opportunity she'd had because her website decided to implode at the worst possible moment.

She didn't hear footsteps. Didn't know he was there until Noah's voice said, "Leighton?"

She looked up, tears streaming down her face. He stood in the doorway, still in his suit from wherever he'd been. His expression shifted from confusion to something else when he saw her crying.

"Sorry," she choked out. "I'll just... I'll go to my room."

"What happened?"

"Nothing. It's fine."

"It's clearly not fine." He moved into the room, keeping his distance. Like he wasn't sure what to do with a crying woman. "Was it another interview?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"How bad?"

"Terrible. My portfolio site crashed halfway through. My internet kept cutting out. I looked like an idiot." Fresh tears spilled over. "They were my best shot and I blew it."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he pulled out his phone. "What's your website?"

"Why?"

"Just tell me."

She rattled off the URL. He typed something, frowned at his screen, typed more.

"Your hosting service is down. Not your fault. Their whole server cluster is offline." He showed her his phone. Sure enough, there was a notice about technical difficulties. "You couldn't have known."

"Doesn't matter. They still saw me screw up."

"They saw your hosting service screw up. There's a difference."

"You didn't see their faces. They already decided I wasn't worth hiring."

Noah pocketed his phone and moved closer, sitting in the chair across from her. "Show me your portfolio."

"What?"

"Your portfolio. I want to see it."

"Noah, you don't have to..."

"I'm not asking to be nice. I want to see what you can do."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, her mascara probably everywhere. "Why?"

"Because you've spent some days in my house, and I don't actually know anything about your work." He nodded at her laptop. "Show me."

She hesitated, then turned the laptop toward him. Pulled up her Behance page. "Most of this is from school or freelance projects. The startup I worked for didn't let me include their stuff in my portfolio. NDA."

He scrolled slowly, clicking on projects. A logo design for a coffee shop. Branding for a yoga studio. A website mockup for a bookstore.

She watched his face for reactions. Got nothing. His expression stayed neutral, giving nothing away.

"This one," he said, pointing at a restaurant branding project. "Talk me through your process."

"The client wanted something modern but warm. Family-owned Italian place that had been around for decades. They were rebranding to attract younger customers without losing their regulars."

"What did you start with?"

"Research. I ate there three times. Talked to the owners, the staff, and regular customers. Looked at what their competitors were doing. Then I developed a few concepts." She clicked through the mockups. "They chose this one. Classic Italian colors but with a contemporary twist. The typography is modern but approachable."

He studied the screen. "The menu design is good. Clean."

"Thanks."

"These icons for the different sections. Custom?"

"Yeah. I illustrated them specifically for this project."

He clicked on another project. "What about this?"

They went through her entire portfolio. He asked questions about her choices, her process, and why she'd picked certain colors or fonts. Real questions. Not the surface-level stuff interviewers asked.

When they finished, he sat back. "You're better than the place that fired you."

"You're just saying that."

"I don't just say things." He met her eyes. "Your work is good. Really good. That interview didn't fall apart because you're not talented. It fell apart because of tech issues and bad luck."

"Bad luck seems to be my specialty lately."

"Luck changes."

"Does it? Because from where I'm sitting, I'm twenty-three, unemployed, living in your house like a charity case, and watching my life fall apart in real time."

"You're twenty-three," he agreed. "And you're talented. You just need the right opportunity."

"I've applied to forty-seven jobs. I've had three interviews. Zero offers." She closed her laptop. "Maybe I'm just not good enough."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Talking about yourself like you're worthless. You're not."

The intensity in his voice surprised her. She looked up at him. He was leaning forward now, his elbows on his knees.

"I've seen a lot of designers," he said. "My company hires them constantly. Most of them are technically competent but creatively boring. They do what they're told. They don't take risks." He gestured at her laptop. "You're not boring. Your work has personality. That's rare."

"Then why can't I get hired?"

"Because the job market is brutal right now. And because you're so busy doubting yourself that it shows in your interviews."

"I'm not..."

"You are. I can hear it in your voice when you talk about your work. Like you're apologizing for taking up space."

She thought about what he'd said in the kitchen. *Stop apologizing for existing.*

"I don't know how to be any other way."

"Learn."

"That's not helpful advice."

"I know." He stood up. "But it's true."

She watched him move toward the door, then heard herself say, "Thank you."

He paused. "For what?"

"For not just telling me it'll be fine. For actually looking at my work." She managed a small smile. "Even if you did it to stop me from crying all over your furniture."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "The furniture can handle it. I was more worried about you."

The admission hung between them. Soft. Unexpected.

"I'm okay," she said. "Or I will be. Eventually."

"I know you will." He looked like he wanted to say something else. Then he just nodded and left.

Leighton sat in the empty room, her laptop closed in front of her. Her face was probably a disaster. Her interview had been a train wreck. She still had no job prospects.

But Noah Knight thought her work was good. Really good. Not just saying it to be nice, but actually meaning it.

That shouldn't matter as much as it did.

But it mattered anyway.

Her phone buzzed. Noah.

*Send me your resume.*

She stared at the text. Typed back: *Why?*

*Just send it.*

*Noah, I don't want pity.*

*It's not pity. Just send me your damn resume.*

She attached the file and sent it before she could overthink it.

His response came five minutes later.

*You're overqualified for most of the jobs you're applying to. No wonder you're not getting calls. You need to aim higher.*

*Higher doesn't mean more desperate. It means I'm worth more than the places that keep rejecting me.*

*I can't aim higher. I need something. Anything. I can't stay here forever.*

*Why not?*

The question made her heart skip.

*Because we both know that's a bad idea.*

*Probably. Doesn't change the fact that you're selling yourself short.*

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know how to explain that aiming high felt like setting herself up for bigger disappointments.

Another text came through.

*Get some sleep. Tomorrow, apply to jobs you actually want. Not just jobs you think might take you.*

*What if nobody wants me?*

*They will. Trust me.*

She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that somewhere out there was a job that would actually appreciate what she could do.

But belief was hard when you'd been knocked down this many times.

Still, she found herself smiling at her phone. At Noah's blunt encouragement. The way he'd sat with her and gone through her entire portfolio like it mattered.

Maybe belief was something you built slowly. One small thing at a time.

And maybe, just maybe, Noah Knight was becoming one of those things.