Chapter 44
Benjamin
Ben woke to warmth.
She was curled against him, breath slow, her leg tangled with his, the arch of her foot resting at his calf, her thigh pressed tight against his. Their hips aligned, the contact intimate, inescapable. His arm still lay across her waist, anchoring her to him.
Too close. Too familiar.
Her face was tilted toward his, lips parted slightly, lashes fanned like soft brushstrokes against her cheek in the pale morning light. She looked peaceful. Stripped of the sharp edges she usually wore like a warning.
It should have felt wrong. Reckless.
But it didn’t.
It felt inevitable.
The way her body fit to his, how her breathing matched his without trying—it was something he’d resisted longer than he wanted to admit. And now, with her in his bed, in his arms, her warmth pressed along the line of his body, he couldn’t bring himself to move.
Not with the low ache in his abdomen that signaled the familiar, automatic annoyance of a morning hard-on—one that had nothing to do with her.
Just his body being a bastard of habit. But now, with her pressed up against him, it felt like the worst possible joke.
He shifted slightly, discreet and careful, not to pull away but to avoid the awkwardness of her noticing.
Not arousal. Just inconvenience. And a frustrating lack of control.
Then—she moved.
A subtle shift. Her leg sliding fractionally, tightening the contact between them.
He felt the change instantly—the delicate halt of her breath, the slight tension that whispered awareness through her body.
Stillness—but not sleep.
She was awake.
And thinking.
Ben didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But he knew her well enough to know exactly what was happening in that sharp, silent pause.
Her mind was already spinning—already calculating the distance, the damage, the quickest path to denial. Already planning how to make this moment mean less than it did.
And that's when he said it. Voice low. Still rough with sleep. Soft, but cutting.
“Stop thinking.”
She froze, and he felt it instantly—the faint hitch in her breath, the tension thrumming beneath his hand along the curve of her spine. It wasn’t dramatic. It was subtle. The kind of reaction no one else would catch, but he’d learned to read it like a tell.
That stillness. The prelude to withdrawal. The moment she started building walls, brick by trembling brick.
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.
He could feel her eyes on him, tracking the movement of muscle beneath skin. The weight of her gaze was almost tangible, a physical sensation that crawled across his shoulders, down his spine.
He didn't say anything else. Didn't push. But they both knew—
This game? It wasn't over. It had barely started.
Ben let a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth, then crossed the room without a word. He stopped in the center of the living room, dropped the bottle onto the floor, and lowered himself into position—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He dropped into a steady rhythm—push-ups first, slow and controlled.
His muscles burned with each repetition, the familiar ache grounding him.
He moved with precision, body responding exactly as commanded.
Burpees next, then weighted squats, core work.
Each exercise executed with ruthless efficiency.
This was his sanctuary. His control. His domain.
Or it should have been.
But the real heat wasn't in his workout. It was on the couch.
Kath had settled in like she owned the damn room, legs tucked beneath her, that sleep-tousled hair falling around her shoulders. Coffee mug cradled in her hands, steam rising between them. And that shirt just long enough to tease.
Every time she shifted, it rode up a little higher on her thighs.
Ben forced himself to focus on his form, on his breathing, on anything but the woman watching him from his couch. But then, as she adjusted her position, he saw it.
Black lace. Barely visible beneath the hem of his shirt. Deliberate as hell.
She didn't move to cover it. Didn't blush. Just watched him.
Openly. Shamelessly.
Ben let the silence stretch between them, feeling the weight of her gaze like a physical touch as he continued his reps.
He lifted again. Flexed again. Her eyes tracked every movement, every bead of sweat that rolled down his chest.
"You could at least pretend you're not staring," he said, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Kath hummed into her mug, all innocence. All lies.
"I'm just observing," she replied, eyes never leaving his body. "Purely educational. Totally educational."
Ben's muscles burned pleasantly as he held his plank, body a perfect line of tension and control. Sweat beaded along his spine, but his breathing remained measured, deliberate. This was where he belonged—in complete command of himself,
his environment, his reactions.
But Kath was making that increasingly difficult.
He could feel her watching him, her gaze like a physical touch sliding across his shoulders, down his back, lingering.
The weight of her attention was distracting, fracturing his focus with each passing second.
He lowered himself into another push-up, rose again. Controlled. Precise. Refusing to acknowledge how her presence affected him.
Until he heard it—a soft, almost imperceptible sound that sliced through his focus like a blade.
A sigh.
Not accidental. Not casual.
The kind that came from somewhere deeper—needier.
His gaze snapped up—sharp, instinctive—and caught her in the act.
Katherine stood there watching him, lip caught between her teeth, her thighs pressed together just a little too tightly. Her eyes had that look—hungry, dark, locked on him like he was something she hadn't decided whether to touch or devour.
Heat shot through him, low and immediate. It curled in his gut, settled heavy and electric between his hips. His arms suddenly felt the strain, his breath hitching just slightly as he held his body off the ground.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t hide.
"You know..." she said, her voice laced with dangerous amusement, "I should probably ask for permission."
Ben froze mid-rep, every muscle in his body suddenly taut with anticipation. He straightened slowly, deliberately, reaching for the towel on the bench without taking his eyes off her.
"Permission for what?" he asked, voice low and measured despite the sudden dryness in his throat.