Over the weekend, Sabina should be resting.

She should. She should sleep in and rest and binge-watch the drama she's been eyeing for so long.

But she ends up doing the one thing she shouldn't—remember the smile pressed onto her lips, remember the places where his fingers spread across her waist, remember the shuddering breath he took at the first touch of their mouths.

Remember his anger and spite in the car.

On Monday, Tristan is outside her apartment with her coffee and his tablet. He doesn't look at her when he says, "Good morning, Ms. Kyle."

Sabina heaves a deep breath and takes the drink. Silently, she climbs in the backseat, and doesn't say a word when Tristan gives her today's schedule.

Her morning meeting is shit. Tristan isn't here, she can't concentrate. Her head hurts and her damn coffee is cold. As soon as it's over, she heads down instead of up in the elevator—a different one from yesterday—and leaves the building to go into the coffee shop next door. Without thinking, she buys two.

When the elevator doors snap open, she places the cup on his desk. Tristan looks up and meets her eyes. "Hey. So. Clearly, I fucked up. I'm sorry. You're not my toy, you're not anyone's toy. I just..." She takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry."

Tristan glances at the coffee. Then back at her. Sabina can't read him, and her hands are curled into fists behind her back. "Is this poisoned?" he asks, raising one eyebrow.

The relief she feels spreads across her body like a wave. Sabina's shoulders relax. "Just a bit. Um, how, how was your date?"

"Fine." He takes a sip. "She's nice, but you don't have to be, Kyle. It looks like it's a lot of effort. You're stuttering."

Sabina purses her lips. "Nice. I'm not nice."

Tristan stares at her. "Yeah, you aren't."

"So. Did you take her home?"

Tristan knows what she's asking. He picks up the coffee. "I dropped her off."

Sabina nods stiffly. "Okay."

He keeps his eyes trained on hers when he takes a sip. "Okay."

*

"You look good."

Tristan raised an eyebrow. "That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Sabina rolled her eyes. "It is not. You're being dramatic."

"And you said casual. This is casual."

She crossed her arms defensively, ponytail swinging from side to side, and nodded. "Yes, because this isn't a work thing. I mean, it is a work thing."

His eyebrow remained arched. Sabina looked him up and down. It was the first time he wore jeans in front of her—jeans and a dark blue sweater with rolled up sleeves. His hair was in waves, disheveled and a little damp from a shower. If Sabina leaned in just a little bit closer, she'd be able to smell his deodorant. "You called me on a Sunday to go with you to buy a bathroom rug for a work thing."

He said that statement so slowly, Sabina felt her brain shrink—shrink so small that she thought it was a good idea to call Tristan for interior designing help. "You know what my bathroom looks like and you said you were free," she muttered, almost hugging herself. "And I said you look good."

He let out an incredulous sound. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, and his eyes slid down, to the cable knit lantern sleeve cardigan in soft green she carefully chose that morning, to her half-exposed stomach, to the wideness of her hips and thighs tucked into a pair of dark high-waisted skinny jeans, and to the green stilettos with ankle straps.

Sabina raised her foot. "They match."

"I can see that," Tristan said, meeting her eyes again. "You look different. Outside of...work and modeling."

Sabina frowned, putting a hand to her hip. She didn't like the sound of it—it was the first time she wore jeans in front of him, too. "Work and modeling? Is everything I wear categorized into—so what's the category now?"

He shrugged, a lazy smirk now on his lips. Sabina wanted to slap it off. "The category is always beautiful. The sub-categories are intimidating boss, amazing model, and laid-back Kyle. I think the last one works best with me—" he coughed suddenly, turning his face away and pressing his mouth to his sleeve.

Sabina's frown deepened. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," he said, then he cleared his throat, and faced her again to smile at her. "Come on, Kyle. We don't have all day to choose a bathroom rug."

Later, Sabina found, after she paid for a two-piece memory foam set (bathroom rug and toilet cover seat) in taupe to match her interior, that Tristan had a fever.

Sabina was annoyed about this. "You said you were free, not sick. What if I got sick, too?"

"I thought you needed me for something important," Tristan muttered from the front seat, beside Stan. "And I think a rug in your bathroom is pretty important, don't want your head bashing in the tiles." He sniffed and looked out the window. "Or mine."

Sabina pursed her lips in irritation and said nothing else.

As soon as Stan pulled up the car in front of her building, she stepped out and opened the passenger door. Tristan blinked up at her. "Out," Sabina said.

"You said you didn't want to be sick," he muttered, but stepped out, anyway.

Sabina took his wrist and led him inside. Pushed him towards one of the guest rooms.

"Oh, wait, no." Tristan stopped near the door and turned around, grabbing Sabina's hands in one of his. He was smiling. "I thought you were dragging me in here to fuck, not to make me sleep in your guest room. Or are you dragging me in here to kill me?"

"You're insane. We're not fucking while you're sick." Sabina yanked her hands away and pushed him again. "And I would like to kill you when you're feeling well."

Chuckling, Tristan followed. Allowed himself to be dumped on his butt on the untouched bed. Now that Sabina looked, his face was a bit flushed and his eyelids were droopy. "Hey," he said, and pointed a finger at her. He swirled it around in circles. "Horny eyes."

"These are angry eyes, you annoying piece of shit." Sabina pressed her palm on Tristan's forehead and almost winced. Tristan was still smiling. She pushed his chest, and he fell down on his back. "Get under the covers. I need you to come to work with me tomorrow and I can't do it if you're running a fever."

Tristan watched her silently until the covers reached his chin, and he said, "Ah. Tomorrow's your first runway. That's why you called me."

"I called you so I can buy a new bathroom rug. Shut up and go to sleep, I'll wake you up later."

She turned around to leave, but Tristan snatched her wrist. Sabina reluctantly turned around and gave him her most indifferent stare. "What?"

"I think I like this Sabina Kyle the most," he said, eyes shining. "The vulnerable and the caring one."

Sabina scowled and took her hand away, turning to the door. "HR, Bishop."

His answering laugh made her smile, but as soon as she was in the kitchen, she dialed Andy's number. The younger picked up immediately. "Hey," she said breathlessly, "I just got out of work. What's up?"

"How do you—" Sabina stopped, clearing her throat. She leaned against the kitchen counter and gestured weirdly with her hands. "How do you take care of a sick creature?"

"Uh. Please specify what kind of creature this is."

"A human."

Andy guffawed. "You're taking care of someone sick?"

"Just tell me what to do," Sabina snapped, rolling her eyes. "I'm being a nice employer—looking out for the health and wellbeing of my employees. And I need this person to come to work with me tomorrow and I can't do that if they're sick."

"Okay," her friend conceded, and Sabina could hear the smile in her voice. "Get some water. Do you have paracetamol?"

*

Sabina's shoot lasted five hours.

It was one of the most daring that she ever did—no, it is the most daring to date. She was topless, and the only thing she wore was Calvin Klein underwear with suspender straps over her shoulders to cover her nipples.

As soon as the photographer called it done, Sabina rolled out of the bed and stood. A robe was draped over her shoulders as she thanked the team, and she headed to her dressing room to change into a cropped hoodie and ankle jeans immediately right after. Usually, she would stay to take off the extravagant makeup put on her face, but she decided that the fiery red around her eyelids can wait at home.

In her sneakers, she felt the exhaustion slowly creep up from the ache in her toes from standing and walking and moving around the different sets, to her calves, the strain in her arms and shoulders. She just wanted to lie down.

Tristan took her bag from her as soon as she walked out the dressing room.

Sabina put a hand to her neck and followed after him to the car. "I'm sorry for going overtime. You know I'll pay you, right?"

Her secretary nodded. "That took long," he commented quietly.

"I shot in a bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom," Sabina muttered, squeezing her eyes shut. "The bedroom one took the longest. And they made me change thrice, they couldn't decide which color underwear was best on me."

Tristan opened the car door to the backseat. The model slipped in with a loud groan, leaning her head back, and then she smelled the food and her stomach growled.

It was only then that she realized she forgot to eat today. Eyes wide, she touches Topside Burgers' brown paper bag, jaw hanging open. Tristan slides in the passenger seat, and he turns his head to gesture at the food. "Your meetings ran late and you didn't want to eat anything before your photoshoot," he says nonchalantly, strapping on his seatbelt. "Stan already ate, too, I gave him your card."

"Oh. Good," is all she can stutter out. "I kind of forget when I'm in the zone..."

"I know," Tristan says, facing the front again. "I remembered."

Stunned, Sabina looks at the rearview mirror, but Tristan is already facing the window. Stan meets her eyes instead and gives her a wink, then pulls out of the parking space.

Sabina is still stunned during the ride home, and it's quiet except for the low volume radio music playing on the speakers. When they arrive at her apartment, she clears her throat, clutches the paper bag, and says in her most normal voice, "You want to go inside?"

Tristan looks at her at the mirror with an eyebrow raised.

Sabina rolls her eyes. "To eat this with me."

Tristan follows her inside. Sabina tosses her bag on the couch and almost tears open the bag on the counter.

"Slow down," he says, a smile pulling up on his lips, reaching for the food. Carefully, he takes off the tapes. "You should've eaten in the car if you were this hungry."

Sabina doesn't bother answering as she licked her lips, eyes trained on the burger Tristan is pulling out.

Tristan scoffs out a laugh at her face and unwraps the foil. "They were working you too hard."

Sabina shrugs with one shoulder and giddily accepts the burger. Tristan takes a seat beside her. "I'm used to it. Do you wanna half this? Or you can raid my fridge."

"No. I already ate, too. Eat."

"Don't laugh at me."

Keeping a straight face, he makes a cross sign to his heart. "I would never." And then he rests his chin on his palm and stares at her.

Sabina rolls her eyes. She doesn't care anymore, she's too hungry to be embarrassed. And what is there to be embarrassed about? This man has seen her wearing nothing.

But a tiny voice in Sabina's head whispers, that's different. That's sex. This isn't.

Sabina shuts it up and takes a big bite. Because she can feel Tristan's eyes on her, Sabina looks at the burger, the wall behind his head, and on the table.

As if finding the need to embarrass her, Tristan points out with evident amusement, "I've never seen you so uncomfortable around me."

"You're just watching me eat gross and greasy food, I'm not exactly a picture of elegance," Sabina snaps, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

Tristan sighs, but he's still smiling, and he fumbles around in the paper bag to grab some napkins. Without a pause, he leans forward and dabs it on the side of her lips. "Like I said before," he mutters, turning away to crumple it up when he's done, like he didn't just shock her to death with that gesture, "the laid-back Kyle is one of my favorites."

Sabina pulls her knees up to her chest. She chews slowly and eyes him. "Do you like raisins?"

Tristan sets two mugs on the table from the cupboard and glances at her. "I eat them. Why?"

"I hate them."

"I know, you've made your resentment clear with the salads at the office pantry." His eyes are shining with amusement. He fills the mugs with soda from her fridge.

"I eat pickles, though," Sabina continues, taking another bite. "Actually, I'm not even supposed to be eating burgers. They're greasy and full of fat, but this is so good."

Tristan hums and leans against the counter, gripping the handle of the mug and taking a sip of it. "I'm glad you like it."

"What's it like having a surgeon for a sister?" she blurts out. She can't stop talking. She doesn't know why she can't stop talking, she should be chewing and swallowing her goddamn food but stupidly, stupidly, she looks at him for an answer.

"Annoying," he answers, chuckling once. "She's...she's good at what she does. And she's smart, she's talented. She's just..." He takes a deep breath and taps his fingers on the glass. "Busy. Working in the hospital and all."

Sabina had a sudden flash of his background check—back when she was hiring. She clears her throat and says, "Didn't you study medicine in college?"

Tristan looks surprised. His lips part from behind the mug. "Uh, yeah. But I—" he scoffs out a laugh. "Change of plans, I guess. Med school wasn't for me. I took a certificate program in executive protection, and, then, uh, I helped my parents run their business at home before The Fit—you."

Sabina wants to ask what kind of business, where is home, and why the shift, why the change, but Tristan has given and given, and given answers to her stupid questions, time and time again. 

She knows when she's in an uneven playing field. She finishes her burger and takes a sip of her soda before saying, "My major was photography." She stares at the wall behind Tristan's head. "But then I stopped, I focused on modeling. And modeling is—" Sabina takes a deep, deep breath. Her lips pull up into a tight smile, and she looks down at the bubbles forming on her soda. "It's great, I love it. It's my job. Well, one half of my job."

Tristan is silent. Sabina feels her chest tighten, and she takes another breath before continuing, "I love dressing up and having my hair and makeup done. I love posing in front of cameras and seeing my face on spreads, covers, ads. I love the work and the art put into it. It's amazing and rewarding, but it's—tiring."

To her horror, to her absolute horror, she feels wetness gathering around her lashes, and fuck. She doesn't cry. As much as possible, Sabina doesn't cry—she doesn't want to.

But when she meets Tristan's eyes, her voice isn't as stable as she prays it to be when she murmurs, "I just wanted your company because I've been gawked at for the past five, six hours." A humorless laugh escapes her, a single tear moves down her cheek, but she quickly swipes that away with her thumb. "And I know it's my work. I'm a model, I'm expected to be gawked at. But I—I don't know, it was just tiring. Uh." She stands suddenly, gesturing at the mess on the table, looking away from his piercing blues, "Thank you, by the way. For the food." She clears her throat. "And for coming here. Inside."

Tristan nods once. "Yeah." He turns around and dumps the mug on the sink. When he faces her, his eyes are magnets—Sabina can't look away. "You don't see it," he breathed, voice utterly low and firm, chin dipping down to level her with his stare.

Sabina sucks in a breath. "See what?"

"You think you're just a pretty face and an amazing body," Tristan says quietly.

The laugh that Sabina makes is awful. "That's all people want me for."

"Not me." Slowly, carefully, gently, he reaches his hand out and taps his finger on her temple, brushing her hair away. "I wanted this. Your thoughts. The way your mind works. Your opinions, beliefs, convictions. Why you like that pumpkin spiced latte when it tastes like shit." Goose bumps rise across her skin, and she's frozen on her seat, watching him with wide eyes, and Tristan moves his finger downwards—a featherlight touch to her cheekbone, the curve of her jaw, the brush of the pad of his thumb to her upper lip. His eyes are ringed dark blue and he doesn't break away. "This. Your smile—rare as they are. The genuine one, not the sarcastic, sickly sweet, although they are a sight to look at, too. Your words—filthy as they are. And your wit."

He lets his finger stay on her lips for a second longer, and then he presses down—like he's sealing it, stamping it down. Sabina is paralyzed. She watches his gaze move further down, and then his finger travels to her chin, her throat, her collarbone and neck, in which he's marked and bitten and claimed as his over and over, and goose bumps follow him like ants on a hill. And then his finger stops on her chest, and the rest of his fingers fold upwards. They spread themselves over her skin, and he raises his eyes again to meet hers. "This. Your heart."

It beats strongly under his touch. It beats, and beats, and beats, gaining momentum and speed at each passing second, and the sound of it makes her ears ring. And it makes his ears ring, too—because the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile.

His hand drops down, and he steps back, buttoning his suit. "Like I said, my favorite Kyle is the vulnerable one. No one sees it often."

There are a million questions waiting on Sabina's tongue. What does this mean? What did you just do? What did I just let you do?

How badly will I be hurt?

She finds her voice. It travels from the pit of her sinking stomach to her ribs, and it crawls up her chest where his fingers had been and up to her throat. Her tongue burns when she says, "Well. Be glad you have the extraordinary privilege."

"Don't get me wrong," he says, eyes glistening, and Sabina cannot look away, "it's a pretty amazing body to gawk at."

Sabina finds herself regaining control of her muscles and nerves. Her eyes roll. "You would know."

"I do know," he agrees, nodding, like they're talking about what's on the dinner menu tonight. "Are you going to report me to HR? I did a lot of things against company policy."

"No." Sabina feels her lips curl up. "Not today."

Tristan bites his lip, like he's keeping the smile away from her, and turns around.

"Wait." She rushes to her couch and digs in her bag for the key. When she finds it, she tosses it to him, and he catches it easily with one hand. "Drive it back in the morning. Not a scratch, please."

He twirls it around with one finger and offers her a two-finger salute, and then he's gone.

Sabina's body sags on the sofa. She falls across the cushion and pillows lifelessly, and her legs feel like jelly—the way they do after mind-blowing sex—but she didn't have sex. Nothing happened, and yet, her body feels like Tristan ripped it open, touched it and prodded at it, and then sewed it back up.

The crazy—no, the terrifying thing is—she'd let him do it again.