I push open my bedroom door, already mentally cataloguing everything I need to accomplish before sleep claims me.

And there he is.

Caleb sits on the edge of my bed like he pays rent, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped between them. His shirt stretches across his shoulders, fabric straining against muscle I’ve memorized without permission. The top two buttons hang open, revealing the hollow of his throat, the beginning of his chest.

The casual invasion of my space should enrage me.

It does enrage me—that familiar fury rising hot and immediate behind my ribs. But beneath the anger, awareness thrums through my veins like a second heartbeat. Anticipation coils low in my stomach, tangled with the memory of his mouth on mine.

“We need to talk.”

His voice is low, controlled, nothing like the boy who slammed doors at breakfast.

“Fascinating opener.” I cross to my desk, putting furniture between us. “The answer’s still no. Get out.”

His gaze tracks my movement, heavy and deliberate, lingering on the curve of my waist. From that alone, heat blooms across my skin everywhere his eyes touch.

“Lucas isn’t what he seems.” He doesn’t move from my bed, doesn’t acknowledge my dismissal at all. “You need to stay away from him.”

A laugh escapes me—sharp and incredulous, scraping against my throat on the way out.

“Oh, this is rich.” I spin to face him fully, disbelief coating every syllable. “You’re giving me relationship advice now? You, of all people?”

“This isn’t about us, Serena.” His jaw tightens, that familiar muscle jumping beneath his skin. “This is about him.”

“There is no ‘us,’ Caleb. There’s you, trespassing in my room, running your mouth about things that don’t concern you.”

The words taste like battery acid and broken promises on my tongue and he stands abruptly, making the room shrinks around his frame. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his chest, revealing the defined planes I once felt beneath my palms.

My mouth goes dry at the memory of his skin against mine.

“You kissed him tonight.” The accusation hangs between us like a blade suspended by a thread.

“So?” I lift my chin, refusing to cower beneath the weight of his stare. “I did a lot of things tonight. Breathing. Blinking. Walking upright.” I tilt my head. “Should I run those by you too, or just the ones involving other men’s mouths?”

“On our doorstep.” His voice drops to gravel, each word deliberate. “Ten feet from where I was standing.”

“Proximity bothers you now?” I step closer before my brain can veto the movement. “That’s new. You’ve never had trouble performing with an audience before.”

His jaw tightens. “Careful, Serena.”

“Or what? You’ll make my life miserable?” I let out a hollow laugh. “Breaking news—you’ve been doing that since middle school. I’m immune.”

“You’re not immune to anything.” He closes the distance between us until I can smell his cologne—cedar and amber and something darker underneath. “Your pulse is jumping in your throat right now. I can see it from here.”

“That’s called hatred, Caleb. Google it.”

“Hatred doesn’t make your pupils dilate.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then drags back up slowly. “Hatred doesn’t make you breathe like you’ve been running.”

“Maybe I’m allergic to bullshit. You’re certainly giving off enough of it.”

“Then why haven’t you screamed for Daddy yet?” He takes another step, and my back meets the wall. “William’s two floors down. One word and I’m out of here.”

The challenge hangs between us, electric and suffocating.

“I don’t need my father to handle you.”

“No?” His hand lifts, fingertips hovering a centimeter from my jaw. Not touching. Waiting. “Then handle me yourself. Put your hands on my chest and shove me out that door.”

My fingers twitch at my sides.

“What’s the holdup, princess?” The nickname drips with mockery. “All that righteous anger and you can’t even touch me long enough to push me away?”

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