“You owe me,” Sofia declared two days later, shoving her phone into Paloma’s hands. On the screen was a text from Omar: Need help with this office disaster. Know anyone who’s good at organizing chaos?

“Absolutely not,” Paloma said immediately, her stomach twisting into a knot. She hadn't been able to stop replaying the moment in the kitchen. The heat of his hand, the raw look in his eyes. She’d pulled her hand back as if burned, mumbled a goodnight, and practically fled the house, her entire body thrumming with a dangerous energy. She had spent the last forty-eight hours in a state of heightened arousal, every thought circling back to him. Being alone with him in a room full of boxes felt like a trap.

“Oh, come on,” Sofia wheedled. “He’s hopeless. You know how he is. It’ll just be for the afternoon. Please?”

And because she was a weak, weak woman, Paloma found herself an hour later standing in the doorway of Omar’s old bedroom, which was now a graveyard of cardboard boxes and unassembled flat-pack furniture. Omar was there, wearing a faded black t-shirt and worn jeans that hugged his thighs. He looked up when she arrived, and the corner of his mouth lifted in that slow, private smile that did terrible things to her insides.

“My savior arrives,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

They worked for the first hour in a surprisingly comfortable silence. The only sounds were the scrape of boxes on the floor, the rip of packing tape, and their soft breathing. The small room was thick with his presence. Paloma was hyper-aware of him, of the way his shirt stretched across his broad back when he lifted a heavy box, the flex of his biceps, the faint scent of his skin that filled the enclosed space. She focused on her task, unpacking books and stacking them neatly on the floor, the repetitive motion a flimsy defense against the pull he had on her. A slow, heavy pulse had started between her legs, a familiar ache that intensified every time he moved into her line of sight.

He was the one who broke the silence. He grunted as he opened a particularly stubborn box, pulling out a stack of vinyl records. He flipped through them, then paused, pulling one out.

“The Smiths?” He looked over at her, an eyebrow raised in genuine surprise. “These aren't mine.” He read the small, neat handwriting on a post-it note stuck to the sleeve. For Omar. Thought you might like this. It was signed with a simple P.

Paloma felt a flush of heat crawl up her neck. She’d given them to Sofia to pass along to him for his birthday years ago, a quiet offering she never expected him to acknowledge, let alone keep.

“You kept it,” she said, her voice quiet.

“Of course I did.” He set it down carefully. “It’s a great album.” He moved to another box, this one filled with old DVDs. “So, you’re a secret mope-rock fan. What else are you hiding?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” She gestured to a worn copy of Blade Runner he’d just unearthed. “Didn’t take you for a sci-fi nerd.”

He laughed, a full, deep sound that made her stomach flutter. “Only the classics. The ones with atmosphere. You can’t beat the noir feel of that film, the rain, the score.”

“Vangelis,” she supplied automatically. “It’s a masterpiece.”

His eyes lit up. “Exactly.” From there, the silence was broken for good. They fell into an easy rhythm, unpacking and talking, the conversation flowing from music to movies. They discovered a shared love for French New Wave films, for the dark post-punk of Joy Division, for old, grainy black-and-white photographs. It was an unexpected alignment of tastes, a secret language they both seemed to speak. The tension that had been purely physical began to change, twisting into something with more substance. He wasn’t just a beautiful body anymore; he was a person whose mind she found herself desperately wanting to know.

He moved on to a dusty box labeled ‘Misc Junk’ in his father’s handwriting. He pried open the flaps and started sifting through the contents—old report cards, tangled cords for forgotten electronics, a single sneaker. Then he stopped, his hands going still. He pulled out a small, square photograph, its colors faded with age. A quiet smile touched his lips.

“God, look at you,” he said, his voice soft. He turned the photo so she could see.

It was her and Sofia, probably around ten years old, sitting on the front steps of this very house. They both had goofy, gap-toothed grins and scraped knees. Paloma felt a familiar pang of embarrassment at the sight of her younger self, all bony limbs and awkwardness. But Omar wasn't laughing. He was looking at the small image of her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.

“I remember this day,” he said, his gaze still on the photo. “It was my dad’s fortieth birthday party. The backyard was full of people, everyone was loud, drinking beer.” He finally lifted his eyes to meet hers. “You disappeared for almost an hour. Sofia came crying to my mom because she couldn’t find you. Everyone thought you’d wandered off.”

Paloma remembered. She’d been overwhelmed by the noise and the sheer number of adults.

“I found you,” Omar continued, his voice dropping lower, becoming more intimate. “You were in the back of my dad’s station wagon, in the cargo space. You’d lined up all your little animal figurines on the wheel well and you were reading to them from a book. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.”

The specific detail sent a shock through her. He remembered the book.

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, his eyes searching hers. “I just watched for a minute. You were so focused. You looked… peaceful. So I closed the door quietly and went and told Sofia you were playing a hiding game and she’d find you later.”

The story settled in the space between them, heavy and profound. He hadn’t just seen her as a child; he’d seen into her. He’d understood her need to escape and, in his own way, had protected it. It was the most intimate thing anyone had ever said to her. The slow, deep throb between her legs intensified into a demanding pulse. A fresh wave of slick heat bloomed from her core, soaking the cotton of her underwear. She felt the wetness against her inner lips, a direct, physical response to his words. Her nipples were hard points pressing against the fabric of her bra. He wasn't just Sofia's brother anymore. He was the boy who had seen her secret world and kept it safe. He was the man who was looking at her now as if that secret world was something he wanted to enter.

He set the photograph down carefully on the corner of the newly assembled desk, handling it like a relic. The air in the room changed, growing thick with unspoken history and present-day desire. The banter about movies and music felt like a lifetime ago. This was something else entirely. This was real.

The spell broke when Omar cleared his throat, pushing away from the desk. “Well,” he said, his voice a little rough. “The books aren’t going to unpack themselves.”

The work resumed, but the atmosphere was completely different. The easy silence from before was gone, replaced by a charged awareness that hummed in the small room. Every time he brushed past her to place a stack of books on the shelf, her skin ignited. She could feel his body heat from a foot away. When he knelt to plug in a lamp, the denim of his jeans pulled tight across his thighs, and she had to force her gaze away, her own breath catching in her throat. The wetness between her legs was a constant, insistent presence, a slick and heavy warmth that seemed to seep deeper with every minute they spent together.

When the last box was broken down and the room finally resembled an office, Omar leaned against the new desk, crossing his arms over his chest. His t-shirt tightened, outlining the hard shape of his pecs. “I’m starving. Let me order us some dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. He wasn't letting her leave yet. Paloma’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, heavy beat. “Okay,” she managed to say, her voice barely a whisper.

He ordered Thai from a place down the street, and they ate sitting cross-legged on the floor, the cardboard cartons spread between them on the new rug. The space felt even smaller now, more intimate. Their knees brushed, a casual contact that sent a jolt straight to her core. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his soap mixed with the spicy aroma of the panang curry.

He ate with an unselfconscious focus, his fork moving from the carton to his mouth. She watched the muscles in his jaw work as he chewed, watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed. He looked up and caught her staring. He didn’t smile, just held her gaze as he took another bite.

“So,” he said, setting his fork down. “You never told me what happened after Narnia. Did you become a famous writer for small animals?”

She laughed, the sound shaky. “I switched to photography. Less pressure to create dialogue.”

“I’ve seen some of your stuff online,” he said, his voice serious now. “Sofia showed me. It’s good. Really good. You have a great eye.”

“Thanks.” Her face felt hot.

“What do you want to do with it?” he asked, his dark eyes intense. “What do you really want, Paloma?”

The question was too big, too direct. What did she want? In that moment, the answer was painfully, shamefully simple. She wanted him. She wanted him to push the food aside and crawl across the small space between them. She wanted him to push her back onto the rug and slide his hand up her thigh, to feel the wet heat he’d unknowingly coaxed out of her. The ache inside her was no longer a dull pulse; it was a sharp, demanding need. She imagined the weight of his body on hers, the rough texture of his jeans against her bare legs. She wanted to feel his cock, thick and hard, pressing against her belly through their clothes.

She parted her lips to answer, to say something, anything, about her career aspirations, but no sound came out. Her gaze dropped from his eyes to his mouth. He followed her look, his own expression darkening. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken invitations. The remnants of their dinner were forgotten. There was only the few feet of floor separating them, the sound of their breathing, and the raw, undeniable hunger that was finally, terrifyingly, out in the open.