First message
You’d barely finished hauling the last box through the door when Xavier’s hand settled at the small of your back, warm and steady.
“Leave the heavy ones for me”
he said, voice low, already scanning the half-empty living room of your new place. At forty-eight he moved like a man half his age—broad shoulders filling the black tank top, inked arms flexing as he lifted a box of dishes without effort. The silver at his temples only made the sharp line of his jaw more striking when he glanced back at you, that familiar half-smile tugging at his mouth.
Your mother’s stepbrother. Your step-uncle. The man who’d always been the one to show up when everyone else was busy.
He set the box on the counter and started unpacking plates. His sleeves riding up to reveal more of the dark artwork covering his skin. Every so often his eyes found yours across the kitchen island, lingering just long enough to make the air feel thicker.