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And I think about the first time I ever wanted her.

It was years ago—too many, if I want to stay sane—but I remember it with crystal clarity.

Dean and I were in his back yard, drinking beers, talking about his new project. I heard laughter from inside, loud and unfiltered, and when I glanced through the screen door, I saw her.

Ava, eighteen and wild, dancing around the kitchen in mismatched socks, a wooden spoon in her hand as she belted out a song that was definitely not in tune.

She was carefree in a way I'd never been.

And when she turned, catching me watching, she had the nerve to wink.

I laughed it off at the time. Told myself it was nothing. But later that night, when I was alone, I realized I was in trouble.

Ava shifts beside me, dragging me back to the present. "You're staring," she murmurs without looking away from the screen.

"You're very pretty," I say, because I don't have the energy to lie.

She laughs, rolling her eyes. "You are so full of it."

I grin, nudging her. "You love it."

She makes apfftsound but doesn't argue.

Eventually, her eyelids start drooping, and I don't fight sleep either.

And for the first time in a long time, I sleep easy.

When I wake, it is to sunlight and the smell of coffee.

For a moment, I forget where I am.

Then I shift, the blankets rustling, and I remember. Ava's bed. Her apartment. The way she fell asleep curled against me, warm and trusting and soft in ways she doesn't let most people see.

I run a hand through my hair and sit up, glancing around the room. It's small, nothing like the sleek, polished spaces I'm used to, but there's something about it—about her—that makes it feel like home.

I get up and gingerly move to the kitchen, where I find coffee already made. The pot is old, the buttons worn, but the scent is rich and perfect.

As I pour a cup, my mind drifts back to the arrangement.

Because no matter how much I want this—want her—I have to be realistic.

Ava is a firecracker. A free spirit. A woman who thrives on spontaneity and laughter and chaos. She deserves someone who can chase adventure with her, who won't weigh her down.

I'm not that guy.

I'm the man who builds things, controls outcomes, keeps his world neat and contained.

I can't ask her to be part of that.

But the problem is… I don't want to walk away.

The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts.

I glance up as Ava walks in, hair mussed from sleep, one of her legs peeking out from under my oversized shirt.

She grins, grabbing a cup for herself.

We settle at the counter, the warmth between us quiet but steady. But then her fingers tighten around her mug, and I see it—her mind is still stuck on last night's message.