Chapter 86

My breath caught, and I couldn't move. Hayden remained still, his eyes locked on mine. We stared, utterly frozen. Neither of us shifted—no approach, no retreat. It felt as though our hearts raced in unison… until an old woman's voice outside shattered the moment: "That new tenant's boyfriend sure knows how to clean. Look at that staircase!"

Reality slammed back. I shoved Hayden away and fled to the living room. There, I stood, utterly bewildered, my mind a chaotic mess.

Hayden followed, breaking the silence with a casual, "Is this your parents' old place?"

I paused, confused, until I noticed him standing by the wall displaying our family photos. "You still look a lot like you did as a kid," he said, almost matter-of-factly.

The wall was covered with childhood awards and family portraits. In one photo, I wore a bright red scarf, my parents flanking me, beaming with pride. But now, those smiles felt like a punch to the gut.

"You were an excellent student," Hayden remarked, glancing at the awards—each a testament to my academic achievements.

"I still am," I retorted, making no pretense of humility.

Hayden turned, his gaze steady. "No doubt," he said, pausing before adding, "In every way."

His words and expression made me squirm. He was intensely direct, both in his speech and his gaze. To avoid entanglement, I quickly changed the subject. "You've been working hard. How about I treat you to dinner? Then we can look at some apartments."

It was a strange shift—from hesitant to assertive. But I did owe him.

"Alright," Hayden agreed instantly. "But I need to wash my face first. Got a towel?"

I glanced at him; his face and clothes were quite grimy. "Hold on, I'll run out and get you a change of clothes," I offered, considering the nearby, albeit inconvenient, supermarket.

"No need," Hayden shook his head. "Just a towel will do. I'll be fine with a quick wash."

I was ready to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped me. I went to the bathroom and handed him my towel. "Here. I don't have a fresh one."

"Thanks," he said, turning on the faucet and splashing water on his face.

For some reason, I couldn't leave. I watched him scrub roughly, splashing water as if indifferent to its chill. He even ran his fingers through his hair, the cold water dripping down his neck. The room wasn't cold, but that water had to be icy. Just as I opened my mouth, he grabbed a towel and dried himself, his movements swift and efficient.

When he lifted his head, our eyes met in the mirror. My cheeks burned; I felt utterly flustered. How often had I felt this awkward and overwhelmed around him? It was like experiencing a massive, shy crush all over again.

Jace and I had discussed marriage, but we'd never shared these heart-racing moments, the kind found in novels. As Steve had pointed out, Jace and I were more like best friends. There was love, but not the wild, electric spark ignited by mystery.

"Doesn't the cold water bother you?" I asked, attempting nonchalance.

"I've washed my face with cold water for years. Old habit from the military," he replied. For a moment, I felt a strange mix of awe and concern. Do soldiers really endure freezing water?