Maxwell quickly averted his gaze.

In his haste, a flicker of rare vulnerability crossed his features. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed once, twice—a reflexive gulp as he fought the sudden, sweltering heat rising within him. He leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes tightly to force the volatile cocktail of frustration and raw desire for her into submission. On his forearms, the veins corded and pulsed with an intensity that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room.

Arianna stood frozen. She had never expected such a visceral reaction to something as simple as a glass of milk.

She bit her lip, her voice barely a whisper. "Did you want that glass instead?"

"No," Maxwell replied, his eyes snapping open. They were dark, ink-black, the kind of gaze that felt as though it might swallow her whole. "I wanted the milk you poured for me."

His voice was a low, gravelly rasp. He watched her with a look of feigned, wounded innocence, like a child denied a treat.

Arianna softened despite herself. She began to bargain, her tone gentle. "I can just go back downstairs and heat up another one, okay?"

"That’s too much trouble. There’s a simpler way."

Arianna spoke before she could think. "What way?"

Maxwell didn't answer. He held out the glass from the coffee table, waiting for her to swap it with the one she had been drinking from. Once the exchange was made, he held her discarded glass firmly in his grip.

"We’ll just swap. You take that one, and I’ll take this."

Arianna stared at him, stunned.

Her internal monologue was screaming: *But I already drank from that one! My lipstick is still on the rim!*

Yet, as she watched, paralyzed, Maxwell leaned in. His thin, elegant lips pressed against the exact spot where hers had been, and he took a slow, deliberate sip.

Arianna stood paralyzed. "..."

Maxwell glanced up at her, eyebrows arched. "Something wrong?"

His tone was impossibly casual, his composure so unshakable that it made Arianna feel like she was the one overreacting. She swallowed the protest dying on her tongue. "N-no, nothing."

"Can't sleep?"

Arianna’s mind was a frantic blur, her response stumbling out. "I'm fine. I can sleep."

"You can sleep?" Maxwell tilted his head, watching her with a look of amused scrutiny. "Then why were you up heating milk at this hour?"

The reality of the situation hit her like a bucket of ice water. She conceded, "…I suppose I can't."

Maxwell took another slow pull from the glass. The milk seemed to coat his voice, making it sound even more lethargic and raw. The way he drew out the tail end of his words hung in the night air like a hook, pulling at her senses.

"Then let’s talk for a while," he suggested, his smile radiating a gentle, indulgent warmth.

"Aren't you going to sleep?"

"I’m wide awake myself."

"Then... what should we talk about?"

"Anything." Maxwell tapped his pale, steady fingers against the glass, creating a crisp, rhythmic sound. "Anything at all. I’m here to keep you company."

Arianna wasn't sure what two people, sitting alone in a room under the moon and stars, were supposed to discuss. After a long, agonizing pause, Maxwell took the lead, steering the conversation toward his college days. Before long, they were deep in the weeds of various academic disciplines.

Arianna couldn't help but let out a small, tired yawn.

Maxwell stopped mid-sentence, turning to look at her. He raised a brow. "Sleepy?"

"A little," she admitted, rubbing the trace of a tear from the corner of her eye. Her voice was light and soft. "Talking to you is surprisingly effective. I'm already nodding off."

Maxwell smirked, a wry tilt of his lips. Was that a compliment, or was she telling him he was boring? He wondered if it was his presence or his dry, professional anecdotes that had done the trick.

Arianna sat silently on the sofa, trying to steady her thoughts. As the room fell into a heavy, suffocating silence, her fatigue began to evaporate. The sleepiness she’d worked so hard to cultivate had vanished entirely.

She grabbed a decorative pillow and thumped it against her forehead, defeated. "How is this possible? I was practically out five minutes ago."

"Now that you’ve gone quiet, I’m wide awake again," she groaned, then offered a sincere, albeit desperate, suggestion. "Maybe we should just keep talking?"

Maxwell: "..."

Before he could respond, she was already pacing through the logic of her own dilemma. "This isn't working. If I get sleepy mid-conversation, I’ll probably wake up the second I walk back to my room. What do I do then?"

"What do you propose?" Maxwell’s tone was relaxed, his lips curling into a lazy, teasing smile. "Should you just stay here tonight?"

The three percent of sleepiness Arianna had managed to bank vanished into thin air. She was fully alert.

The weight of what she had said hit her, too. To any bystander, it sounded like a blatant suggestion.

*God help me.*

Maxwell didn't miss a beat, just leaned further into the role of the obliging host. She desperately hoped he wouldn't misinterpret her slip of the tongue.

"There's no need for that," she stammered, scrambling for an exit. "I’m sure I can—"

"No need?" Maxwell acted as if he were giving it serious, intellectual consideration. "If you can't sleep, what’s the alternative?"

Arianna was still searching for a graceful exit when Maxwell checked his watch.

"It’s midnight," he said firmly. "You have work in the morning. Not sleeping isn't an option."

He paused, then proposed with the utmost gravity: "Tell you what. If you trust me, I’ll stay here and talk to you until you drift off. Once you’re asleep, I’ll carry you back to your room. How does that sound?"

*Carry me back to my room?*

...How, exactly?

As for the trust factor, Arianna knew Maxwell to be a man of his word; he would never take advantage of her in a compromised state. But the image of him carrying her sparked a series of dangerous thoughts she couldn't suppress.

She could trust Maxwell, but she couldn't trust herself. Her grandmother used to say that Arianna was an aggressive sleeper—even in the dead of summer, she would burrow into her grandmother’s arms, clinging to her like a lifeline. If her grandmother so much as twitched, Arianna would drift through the fog of sleep and hold on tighter.

Even now, she carried the habit over to her own bed, often waking up to find herself tangled in a blanket on the floor. With a sleeping habit like that, she couldn't guarantee that if she fell asleep in Maxwell’s arms, she wouldn't start "wandering" or taking liberties.

As much as the offer tempted her weary mind, she had to refuse. "Thank you for the offer, but I think I’m ready for bed now."

Maxwell looked unconvinced. "Are you?"

"I am."

To prove it, Arianna grabbed the glass of milk from the table. "With this, I’m certain I’ll be out in minutes."

She downed the rest of the glass in one gulp and then scrambled to her feet. "I’m off! Get some rest. Goodnight."

She had barely taken a step before Maxwell reached out, grabbing her arm. His palm was searingly hot against her skin, a firm, possessive grip that left no room for debate.

His voice, low and magnetic, rumbled from behind her.

"Wait."

"Mrs. King, what’s the rush?"