Villain Ch 1817. Bloodied Shirt
The breakfast was over in less than twenty minutes.
Allen didn't linger over the food, didn't dawdle like someone who had all morning. He just ate, cleaned his plate, stacked hers without asking, and was already at the sink before Azura could so much as protest.
The sight of him—topless, muscles flexing as he rinsed dishes in her tiny apartment sink—was, somehow, more obscene than anything they'd done last night.
Her brain just… broke.
She stared. Mouth slightly open. Her cheeks burned.
'Dear God, why is washing dishes sexy?' she thought, dragging both palms over her face. 'This isn't fair. Not at all.'
Water ran quietly, utensils clicked in rhythm. There was no awkwardness in his steps, no hesitation in his posture. Just calm, focused efficiency that screamed discipline. Control. The same control he'd used on her hours ago—except now, it was domestic. And somehow, that made it worse.
