Chapter 4

After that, I was not be thinking about Cassian's hands.

This should have been easy. It was just Cassian. My pain-in-the-ass, egotistical, occasionally brilliant boss-slash-best friend.

And yet, I was failing spectacularly.

Because his damn hands were everywhere.

After his dramatic cement-throwing demonstration, I had tried—really, truly tried—to refocus. I went over material costs in my head, thought about the last investor meeting, mentally recited my grocery list.

Nothing worked.

Because Cassian, completely unaware of my internal demise, was still using his hands like some kind of cruel temptation.

Gesturing sharply as he talked to the engineers. Running a hand through his hair in frustration. Checking his damn watch, forearm flexing in the process.

And worst of all—wiping the remaining wet concrete off on his jeans.

I actually felt my soul leave my body.

Who gave him the right? Who let him exist like this?

I took a deep breath, dragging my gaze away from the crime scene.

I was fine. Totally fine.

Until Cassian—of course—turned back to me and held out his stupid, perfect, slightly cement-dusted hand.

"Phone," he said.

I blinked. "What?"

"My phone. In my pocket. I need to call the supplier."

Oh. Right. He couldn't grab it himself with his hands still a mess.

So now I had to physically reach into his pocket without combusting?

This was hell.

I swallowed, steeled myself, and reached forward like a normal, unaffected person.

His jeans were warm under my fingers, and I was not thinking about that. I fished out his phone, shoving it into his very undeserving palm before immediately stepping back like I had been burned.

Cassian didn't notice. Of course, he didn't.

He just started dialing, completely oblivious to the fact that I was about three seconds away from sprinting into the ocean and never returning.

This was fine. I was fine.

I just needed a moment.

A moment away from his hands.

Away from whatever the hell this was.

Or else, I was going to have to start looking for a new job.

By the time I got home, I was a woman on a mission.

I needed to reset my brain. To take back control. To prove that whatever had happened on-site today was a fluke.

Cassian's hands—his stupid, frustrating, unfairly capable hands—had been everywhere. And I had been one second away from losing my entire grip on reality.

But it wasn't about him.

It was about the hands.

And the only way to exorcise this demon was to handle it the way I always did.

So, sprawled out in bed, I did what any sane, functional adult would do: I switched it up.

Different images. Different hands.

Stronger. Rougher. Completely detached from today's incident.

And it worked. For a while.

Until, at the very end—when my breath hitched and my mind should have been blank—the image slammed into me like a truck.

Cassian's fingers, coated in wet concrete. The slow drip between them. The way they flexed, rough and certain, before throwing the mess aside.

My entire body seized.

Not him. Never him.

Just the hands.

The thought should have died there—should have disappeared into post-release clarity.

Instead, it got worse.

Because suddenly, I was wondering.

Wondering how those hands would feel on my tongue.

I choked.

My own traitorous mind betrayed me, and I was immediately drowning in disgust.

Absolutely not.

I threw the covers off, sat up so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash, and curled into myself in pure, unfiltered horror.

This wasn't about Cassian. It wasn't.

But those hands were still a part of him.

The next morning, I arrived at the office with one goal: I would not look at Cassian's hands.

It was simple. Easy. Totally doable.

I had spent the entire night mentally rewiring my brain to treat his hands like they were radioactive. I would focus on his face, his words, his annoying personality—anything but the betrayal that was his fingers.

For the first hour, I was doing great.

Cassian walked in, coffee in hand (I didn't look). He scrolled through his phone while giving orders to the project team (I didn't look). He gestured as he talked to me about today's site visit (I definitely didn't look).

It was going well.

And then, like some cosmic punishment for my sins, he leaned over my desk, pressing his palm flat on the surface as he pointed to something on my screen.

Directly in my line of sight.

I froze.

His fingers. Right there. Right. There.

Long, slightly rough, a faint smudge of ink near his knuckle from God-knows-what.

I refused to acknowledge them.

I forced my gaze straight ahead, nodding like I was actually listening to whatever he was saying.

"…so if we shift the scheduling for materials, we should be able to make up for lost time."

I nodded again. No idea what he just said.

"Makes sense?" he asked, watching me.

Absolutely not. "Yeah, totally."

His fingers tapped against the desk—I clenched my jaw so hard I might've cracked a tooth.

"Okay, cool," he said, stepping back. The crisis was over.

I exhaled. Victory.

Until—

"Hey, you good?" he asked, frowning slightly.

I blinked. "What?"

"You're acting weird."

I laughed. Too loud. Too fake. "I'm not weird. You're weird." Mentally face palming myself cause that is suspicious af.

Cassian narrowed his eyes, but thankfully, he let it go.

For days, I fought. I really did.

For days, I avoided looking at his hands like they were a plague. I trained my eyes anywhere else—his face, his terrible choice of shirts, the coffee stain he got on his tie that I refused to tell him about.