Chapter 7: You Still Smell Like Trouble

My morning coffee wasn’t even halfway gone when the doorbell rang. Twice. Quick.

Confident. A little too self-assured.

I stared at the door for two full seconds. Half-hoping it was a delivery guy or a neighbor at the wrong address. But deep down, I already knew who it was.

I took a long breath and opened the door.

And there he was.

Reagan Milano stood there in a dark blue suit that somehow managed to look casual, even though he always looked like he’d just stepped off the cover of Forbes. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up just enough to show off a matte black watch that was almost too sleek to be called simple. His hair was slightly tousled. Purposefully, no doubt, like he’d let the wind play with it just to add drama.

His eyes flicked past me into the apartment, then returned to mine. One brow lifted.

“You’re not packed,” he said, like he was commenting on the weather.

I blinked. “Good morning to you too, Reagan. Thanks for dropping by uninvited.”

He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, like nothing in the world could shake him. “It’s eight twelve. My car’s downstairs. And you’re still in pajamas.”

I scoffed, crossing my arms. “Please tell me you’re not actually expecting me to pack up and move back into your house like some—”

“Wife?” he cut in. “Yeah. I know. Sounds strange… but legally, that’s still what you are.”

The vein in my temple started to throb. “You really enjoy this, don’t you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just gave me that half-smile. The one that never quite reached his eyes but still managed to make me feel like I was being stripped bare without him ever touching me.

“I just appreciate punctuality. And, well… this morning’s view.”

His gaze dropped briefly to my thin t-shirt and shorts, then back up again, calm as if he’d just checked the thermostat and not just undressed me with his eyes.

I pushed the door halfway closed, tempted to slam it in his face. But his hand was already there. Too fast. Too casual. Like he knew I’d try.

“Four months, Gretta,” he said, tone flat. “You can spend it fighting like this… or at least make it less painful for yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes. “So now you care about my pain?”

“I didn’t say care,” he said, emphasizing the word like a bullet. “I just don’t like unnecessary noise.”

I wanted to slap him. Or kiss him and then slap him. My reactions to him had always been contradictory and I hated that.

“One hour,” I muttered finally, too tired to keep arguing.

Reagan didn’t wait.

The moment I stepped back, he walked in like he owned the place. Maybe in his mind, he still did. No permission, no hesitation. The cool morning air followed him inside, laced with his signature cologne. Vetiver, tobacco, and something that smelled vaguely like new leather and bad intentions.

He scanned the apartment with his head tilted. “Minimalist,” he said. Then added with a smug smile, “And too small.”

“Reagan.” I exhaled as I shut the door. “I said one hour. That doesn’t mean you can just barge in and—”

“I’ll wait inside,” he cut me off, like he was choosing a table at a restaurant. “That couch looks comfortable enough.”

He dropped onto my gray sofa, crossed his legs, and stretched one arm across the back like he’d just settled into a place that belonged to him or at least used to.

I stood there, fists clenched at my sides. “I haven’t even had breakfast.”

He glanced over, expression nearly innocent. “Go ahead. I don’t mind waiting.”

“I mind you being here,” I muttered more to myself than to him.

Reagan just shrugged and checked his watch. “The longer you complain, the longer we’re here. But if you’re trying to make me comfortable, I could be convinced to stay awhile.”

I let out a long sigh, turned, and walked into the kitchen. Every step felt like a test of my patience.

I grabbed a piece of bread and dropped it into the toaster. Opened the fridge. Almond milk. Hard-boiled eggs from yesterday. Half an avocado already starting to brown.

Perfect. Breakfast of the emotionally imprisoned.

From the living room, his voice floated in casual, smug, and annoying as hell. “This rug is new? The color’s too pale. It’d look better if—”

“If I asked you to shut up for ten minutes, do you think you could manage that?”

He laughed softly. “You know I’m not great with unproductive silence.”

I grabbed a fork and started scooping avocado onto my toast. I could feel his eyes on me, even from behind the kitchen shelf.

Part of me wanted to smash the cutting board against the counter until it cracked.

The other part... the one I hated more... was aware that the entire room had shifted the second he walked in. Felt fuller. Hotter. More alive and I hated that fact more than anything.

I brought my plate over to the tiny breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen and sat down. Slowly. Forcing myself to chew.

From the sofa, Reagan leaned forward just slightly. “You always eat faster when you’re mad. Like that time we—”

“Don’t.”

That smirk flickered across his face.

I stared down at my avocado like it could give me strength. But the only real force in this apartment right now was the man sitting in my living room, acting like he never truly left.

And maybe in his mind... he hadn’t.

Three bites and one lazy glance at the clock later, I let out a long breath and gave in. “I’ll pack,” I muttered without looking his way.

“It’s about time,” he replied, like this was all just going according to schedule. His schedule.

I walked toward my bedroom without another word. But I didn’t even make it five seconds into opening my closet before I heard slow footsteps follow behind.

And there he was. Leaning against the doorframe like he was waiting for a casual GQ photoshoot.

“Don’t tell me you need a checklist,” he said, folding his arms.

I just yanked my suitcase out from under the bed and dropped it onto the mattress.

“Pack something comfortable,” he added. "And don’t forget work clothes. I’m not letting you miss a meeting because you had to come back to this shoebox for your shoes.”

I spun around. “You want me to live in your house for four months, not enlist in the military.”

He raised a brow. “You haven’t seen the weekly itinerary I’m sending.”

“If you send that to my work email, I’ll block you.”

He chuckled. “You won’t. You’re too professional for that.”

I exhaled slowly and started folding clothes into the suitcase. Every time I moved, I could feel his eyes on me. Not in a sleazy way. No, that would’ve been easier.

This was worse. This was evaluating. Remembering.

“You still have that black T-shirt I gave you?” he asked, voice casual, but I knew better.

My hands paused in the middle of a stack of clothes. I gripped a sweater too tightly, then tossed it into the suitcase without saying a word. “Don’t take anything, Reagan,” I said, standing and slamming the drawer shut harder than necessary. “It’s four months. That’s it. Not a reunion. Not a nostalgia tour.”

He nodded, but with a smile that said, You think it’s just four months. You have no idea.

“I’m bringing two suitcases,” I muttered. “And if you try organizing my closet like you do my calendar, we’re going to have a serious problem.”

“I like problems,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room.