Page 198 of The Rules

Ben drew in a slow, practiced breath and let it out without a sound. Calm. Methodical.

Then he moved.

No comment. No resistance.

His touch disappeared. He pushed upright and rolled his shoulders back in a stretch that felt too easy, too smooth. As if he hadn’t just been pressed to every inch of her.

As if he hadn’t memorized her warmth.

But he had.

And it mattered.

Just not in the way she feared.

This wasn’t him clinging. This was him letting go, because that was what she needed.

After they’d both gotten up—no words, just the quiet shuffle of morning— Ben watched her move through his kitchen with an ease that shouldn't exist. Not here. Not between them.

Kath crossed the space barefoot, wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt that had no business looking the way it did on her. The soft, worn fabric skimmed her thighs, just barely covering what it needed to, leaving her leg exposed. No shorts. No hesitation. Just coffee and confidence.

Her hair was still tousled from sleep, falling in waves that framed her face in a way that looked far too deliberate for someone who had just rolled out of bed. Every movement was measured—the way she reached for a mug, the practiced tilt of her wrist as she poured. Like she'd claimed this space. Like she belonged here. Like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And she did. Because she knew he was watching.

Ben didn't bother pretending otherwise. He leaned against the kitchen island, already dressed for his morning workout—if you could call it dressed. Just loose pajama pants riding low on his hips. No shirt. Bare feet against the cool tile. He stretched one arm across his chest, muscles flexing beneath skin in a motion that was anything but casual.

He knew what he was doing, too.

This wasn’t just banter. It was a game. A quiet, deliberate negotiation of power that had nothing to do with the case— and everything to do with the charge between them since that first night at the Crimson.

Kath turned, coffee in hand, and leaned against the counter. Her gaze met his—steady, unreadable—then dipped lower.

And then she stared.

She didn't even try to hide it. Her gaze traveled slowly, deliberately over his chest, lingering on the defined muscles of his abdomen, the tension in his arms as he continued his stretch. Her lips parted slightly, the rim of the mug hovering just beneath them.

She should look away. Should pretend this wasn't affecting her.

She didn't.

Ben caught her gaze and smirked, enjoying the way her eyes widened slightly when she realized she'd been caught. He didn't look away, didn't give her the courtesy of pretending he hadn't noticed.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked, not even trying to hide the satisfaction in his voice.

Kath lifted her mug to her lips, that little smug tilt curling at the corner of her mouth. The one that always made him want to either kiss it off her face or challenge her until she cracked. Maybe both.

"I've seen better," she said dryly.

Ben pretended to clutch his chest, wounded. The movement pulled at his muscles, highlighting exactly what she claimed not to be impressed by.

"Liar," he said, mock-offended.

She grinned over the rim of her mug. A flash of teeth. A hit of challenge. Something about that smile made his blood run hotter, made him want to push further.

"Fine," she conceded. "Maybe a little."

Ben hummed, turning back to grab his water bottle—giving her one hell of a view while he did. He took his time, reaching up to the cabinet, stretching just a little more than necessary.