After dinner, Maxwell set about cleaning up the table, gathering the various take-out containers.

Arianna reached for the remote and turned on the air conditioning.

A sharp *beep* echoed through the room. Maxwell paused, his hand hovering over a stack of cardboard boxes, and looked over at her. "Are you sure you want the AC on?"

Arianna stared at his sweat-dampened shirt. "Yeah. I'm hot."

Maxwell let out a low chuckle, sounding like a man who had long ago surrendered to her whims, though his tone held that familiar, simmering tenderness. "Whatever you want. Just keep it at a reasonable temperature, don’t catch a chill."

"I know," Arianna murmured, biting her lip.

The white dress shirt he was wearing had been soaked through with sweat, turning it dangerously translucent. He was standing right by the window where the evening light was brightest, and from where Arianna sat, she had a perfect view of everything underneath that thin fabric.

His waist was lean and powerful, his abdomen etched with defined, rhythmic muscles—a display of raw, physical strength that was devastatingly sexy.

Her gaze traveled upward, and suddenly, without warning, she crashed straight into his dark, searching eyes.

With the cleanup finished, Maxwell leaned lazily against the table, one brow cocked, watching her with a look of predatory composure. "Like what you see?"

The question was casual, yet Arianna felt the thick, heavy air of innuendo settle between them.

She recoiled, snapping her gaze away as if burned. "I... I wasn't looking at anything."

"Is that so?" He didn't sound convinced.

She scrambled for an excuse, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I was just checking to see if you’d finished packing up the trash." She wouldn't—couldn't—look him in the eye.

Maxwell saw right through it. He gave a quiet, knowing smile, choosing not to call her bluff. "All done," he said smoothly. "You wait in the living room. I’m going to go grab a shower."

"Oh," Arianna managed to squeeze out.

Once the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, she sat on the sofa, mind completely blank. Then, unbidden, a stray thought drifted into her consciousness: *Obviously she has to wait in the living room... it’s not like she’s going in there to shower with him.*

The next second, she was horrified by her own brain.

What was she thinking? Especially when the subject was Maxwell King. It was completely inappropriate. Utterly, fundamentally wrong.

Arianna sat there in silence, conducting a desperate internal audit of her own sanity. She was still deep in this self-flagellation when her grandmother’s phone call came through. The familiar, gentle voice washed over her. "Arianna, darling."

Arianna forced a bright smile, pushing the noise out of her head. "Grandma."

"Did your visitor arrive yet?"

Her grandmother always tracked her cycle. If things were slightly irregular, she’d ask questions, log the new dates in her little notebook, and lecture Arianna on her diet. Arianna always listened intently, but the moment she saw a scoop of ice cream or a slice of chilled watermelon, the advice vanished like smoke. She’d always think, *just one bite won't hurt.*

Reality never failed to collect on the debt, usually delivered in the form of brutal cramps during the next period.

"Yes, it arrived," Arianna replied.

"Are you in pain?"

"Not anymore."

"Truly? Don't lie to your grandmother," the old woman fretted. "It’s late. Have you eaten?"

"I did."

Arianna pressed a hand to her stomach. It really was much better than before—none of that agonizing, gut-wrenching, soul-crushing pain. The cold sweats had stopped, the AC was set to a comfortable breeze, and she felt a genuine sense of ease settling over her.

"I’m not lying, Grandma. I’m really fine," Arianna said, her eyes curving into soft crescents. "I took my meds and I'm wearing a heating patch. I feel great."

"That’s good. That’s such a relief." A beat later, her grandmother lowered her voice, sounding almost conspiratorial. "Arianna... you and Maxwell, everything is going well, right?"

"Everything is great. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Her grandmother smoothed back her silver hair, laughing softly. "Just checking. As long as you’re happy, I can sleep in peace."

It was clear her grandmother was still worried—worried that Arianna wasn't being treated well, worried about what kind of man Maxwell really was.

An outer layer slid off Arianna's shoulder. She grabbed the collar, pulling the jacket tighter around herself. Before heading into the shower, Maxwell had draped this over her shoulders. He’d adjusted the AC settings, fussed over the temperature, and nagged her like a seasoned caregiver. *Set it to 78 degrees, adjust it later if you're comfortable—put this jacket on—or just turn it off, you can’t get cold right now.*

She’d pretended to be annoyed, but inside, she felt like she was drowning in sugar.

She suddenly thought back to that camping trip on the mountain—the very first time they’d met. Back then, Maxwell had done the exact same thing, wrapping her in blankets and jackets to hide her bare skin and blue-tinted legs from the mountain air.

He had always been a good man. Even in college, in her memory, Maxwell had always been a gentleman—refined, courteous, and polite.

"Grandma," Arianna said earnestly. "Don't worry. He’s a wonderful person. He treats me incredibly well."

"I know," her grandmother teased. "I'm not senile yet, dear. I can see how he treats you. No need to be so quick to defend your husband."

Arianna: "..."

"Is Maxwell there? Are you two together?"

Arianna glanced toward the bathroom. Through the frosted glass, she could see the silhouette of water droplets racing down in winding, crystal-clear trails. "Yes, we're together."

Her grandmother’s voice turned tentative. "Could you put him on the phone? I have a few things I’d like to say to him."

"Right now? It might have to wait a second, he's just..." The words died in her throat as she caught herself. She swapped it for something less suggestive. "He's just washing up."

The bathroom was right next to the vanity, so it wasn't exactly a lie. But the next second, the sound of the shower cut out with a sharp *hiss*, and the door swung open.

Maxwell stepped out, wrapped in nothing but a white towel, his chest entirely bare.

Arianna: "..."

She got her wish. She saw everything she had glimpsed earlier beneath the shirt, now completely exposed.

Beads of water rolled from his chest, tracked over his lean, corded waist, and disappeared along the sharp line of his obliques into the fold of the white towel. It was the classic silhouette—broad shoulders, narrow waist—every muscle proportioned with lethal precision. It wasn't over-the-top, just perfectly, dangerously masculine.

Compared to the hazy view through the shirt, this was a sensory assault.

Arianna was struck dumb, her mouth slightly agape, unable to tear her gaze away until her grandmother’s voice snapped her back to reality.

"Arianna? Arianna? Honestly, child, why are you so quiet?"

She blinked, finally realizing how she must look. "Ah! Yes. You wanted to talk to him, right? I... hold on, he... he just came out..."

"It's fine. It doesn't have to be today. Another time is fine."

But Maxwell was already walking toward her. He didn't take the phone from her hand; instead, he leaned in, his voice warm and polite as he spoke directly into the receiver. "Grandma. It’s me."

As Arianna sat there, still reeling from the sight of him, Maxwell let a satisfied smile touch his lips.

He’d been right. She liked his body.