It’s time for some food

By the time I reached my bedroom door, my cheeks burned hotter than the shower had left them. I pressed my back against the wood once it closed, exhaling slowly. It wasn’t like I’d never noticed Mr. Hartwell before—Bella’s dad had always been fit for his age—but noticing him notice me? That was new. And unsettlingly thrilling.

The towel slipped further as I bent to grab pajamas from my still-unpacked suitcase, and I caught my reflection in the wardrobe mirror: damp hair clinging to my shoulders, skin flushed, nipples pebbled against the terrycloth. I hesitated, then tugged the towel free, letting it pool at my feet. For a stupid, reckless second, I imagined his hands skimming my waist, his fingertips pressing into my skin—

A knock at the door made me jump. "Flick?" Bella's voice, muffled through the wood. "Dad's paying and I’m ordering Thai. You want your usual pad see ew?"

"Yeah, sounds good," I called back, voice suddenly too loud. I yanked on an old Newcastle Uni hoodie—too big, stolen from an ex last winter—and a pair of cotton shorts before opening the door. Bella stood there, phone in hand, eyebrows raised.

"You look like you ran a marathon," she said, thumb hovering over the order button. "Shower that hot, or did you see a ghost?"

I wiped at the condensation still clinging to my collarbone. "Just... steam." The lie fizzed on my tongue. Through the open door behind her, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Hartwell in the kitchen, his back to us as he filled a water bottle at the sink. The way his shoulders moved under the tight fabric made my throat go dry.