The man who funded my education for years went bankrupt and lost his sight. I found him, brought him home, and took care of him. He stared blankly with unseeing eyes, his voice fragile and thick with unshed tears. “Don’t be so good to me, Harper. I’m thirty. I’m a ruined man. I don’t deserve you.” I leaned over to gently wipe the dampness from his cheek. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw his adopted son leaning against the hallway wall, arms crossed, watching him with a frigid glare. “He’s right. You are thirty,” the boy said softly. He shifted his gaze to me, a smirk playing on his lips—a smile wrapped in barbed wire, radiating a storm. “And me?” he said. “I’m only eighteen.” 1 It was my third year in the corporate world when the news broke: Arthur Harrison had lost everything. His massive gamble on a tech merger had failed spectacularly. He was wiped out. His rivals hadn’t hesitated to kick him while he was down, and amidst the chaos, a car accident had taken his sight. “Arthur Harrison just didn’t have the teeth for it. A businessman with a heart that soft was never going to last,” my coworkers gossiped over their cubicle walls. “God, he used to be Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. Now look at him. He’s worse off than a beggar on the street.” “Harper? Are you okay? You look awful,” one of the women finally noticed me. I stared at them for a second, my mind entirely blank, before I grabbed my purse. “Sarah, I have a family emergency. I need to take the afternoon off.” If you had told me three years ago that my reunion with Arthur Harrison would happen in a greasy, linoleum-floored diner near Chicago Med, I would have thought you were insane. Three years ago, he was a wildly successful young entrepreneur. He had been the keynote speaker at my college graduation. He had stood at the podium—radiant, effortless, and devastatingly handsome. The campus anonymous boards had talked about him for weeks. Now, his eyes were dull and unfocused. His long fingers groped blindly across the sticky Formica table. I saw a smear of ketchup near his sleeve and quickly caught his hand. With my other hand, I took a wet wipe and scrubbed the table clean. “Stop fussing and just spit it out!” a brash, impatient voice snapped. I turned my head. Sitting across from Arthur was a college kid radiating pure, unadulterated hostility. He had a shaved head, a slit in his left eyebrow, and a silver stud in his ear. He knocked his knuckles hard against the table, barking like a cornered stray. “I’m warning you, the money is gone. You could shake him upside down and you wouldn’t find a dime, so drop the Good Samaritan act.” “I apologize. My son’s temper gets the better of him. He didn’t mean to offend you,” Arthur said softly. “Why are you being polite to her? Anyone looking for you right now is a debt collector.” “Jaxon, that’s enough.” They started arguing. Arthur kept his voice low, trying to de-escalate, but Jaxon was relentless. He was stubborn and vicious, throwing words like punches until Arthur’s pale cheeks flushed with humiliation. I stared at the rigid, defensive line of Arthur’s back for three full seconds before I realized I was still holding his hand. I looked down. There was a tiny, distinct mole resting right on the webbing between his thumb and index finger. Only when Arthur’s flush deepened and those cloudy, unseeing eyes turned vaguely in my direction did I finally let go. “Mr. Harrison, you misunderstand. I’m not here for money. My name is Harper. Harper Hayes. I’m one of the students you sponsored.” Arthur blinked slowly, his brow furrowing as he searched his memory. I figured he had forgotten. He had dropped out of an Ivy League school to build a startup that changed the industry, and in his quest to change the world, he had funded the education of hundreds, if not thousands, of underprivileged kids. But then, Arthur smiled. It was the same smile from three years ago, when he had his bodyguard hand me a bouquet of flowers at graduation, waving goodbye to me through the tinted glass of his town car. “I remember you,” he said softly. “All the other kids called me Arthur in their letters. You always called me Mr. Harrison.” He remembered. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to suppress the sudden, violent hammering of my heart. “Mr. Harrison,” I said, my voice remarkably steady. “If you don’t mind, you can stay at my place for now.” Jaxon crossed his arms. “He can’t pay rent.” “He doesn’t need to.” Jaxon scowled. “He needs money for medical bills.” “I’ll pay them.” Jaxon narrowed his eyes, assessing me. “You’ve got a good job, you’re pretty. Why the hell are you anchoring yourself to dead weight?” Arthur turned his blind gaze toward me, silent, lost, and deeply worried. I tapped the table, a flicker of genuine anger sparking in my chest at the term “dead weight.” When I spoke, my tone had turned to ice. I looked right at Jaxon. “Seven years ago, I had nothing. If Mr. Harrison hadn’t paid for my schooling, I would have been trapped in a dead-end factory town for the rest of my life, popping out kids.” I sat up straight and looked back at Arthur. “I will remember that grace until the day I die. I am here to pay my debt. He is not dead weight, and I refuse to let him sink into the mud. I will hold him up. I will carry him.” 2 It took some convincing, but Arthur eventually moved into my apartment. He was hesitant, but he had no other options. The banks had seized everything. He was penniless, homeless, and responsible for Jaxon—the orphaned son of his late older brother. Jaxon had just started his freshman year of college. As far as I was concerned, he was a walking lawsuit waiting to happen. But he was Arthur’s kid, which meant I had to tolerate him. Blindness made every little thing a monumental task for Arthur. I held onto his sleeve, gently guiding him through every room, letting him touch the edges of the furniture, the doorways, the counters. He smiled, apologizing for the trouble, assuring me he had memorized the layout. But that very first night, he mistook the living room for his bedroom. I was lying on the couch in the dark, scrolling through my phone, when I noticed him stop dead in his tracks by the wall. I paused, curious. When he didn’t call out, I realized he had no idea I was there. I smiled to myself and opened my mouth to let him know. But before I could speak, Arthur—staring blindly at the drywall—began to unbutton his dress shirt. Inch by inch, his chest was exposed in the moonlight. He slipped the shirt off, draping it over his forearm. He pressed his right hand against the wall for balance, and then— He reached for the buckle of his belt. 3 I lay paralyzed on the couch, instantly regretting not speaking up two seconds earlier. Arthur’s skin was pale, his muscles lean and tightly coiled. Bathed in the silver light spilling through the window, he looked like a statue carved from moonstone. Left in nothing but a pair of dark grey boxer briefs, he trailed his hand along the wall, trying to navigate toward the bed. Except he was in the wrong room. After a few steps, his hand hit the flat screen of the TV. A flash of sheer panic crossed his face. Arthur was a dignified man. I doubt he had ever in his life stripped down in a woman’s living room uninvited. His hands began to shake wildly as he felt his way along the wall. It took him an agonizingly long time to finally find the door to the guest bedroom. He practically fled into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. On the couch, the breath I had been holding in my lungs finally escaped in a violent, trembling exhale. He had a mole on his left shoulder blade, right near the curve of his collarbone. It looked like a dark, tiny fish swimming in a pale pond. Beauty is marked by its flaws. For some reason, that phrase echoed in my head. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. I lay there until the early hours of the morning, waiting until I was absolutely certain Arthur was asleep before I silently crept off the couch and slipped into my own bedroom. 4 The first time I saw Arthur Harrison was at my high school. It was a decaying, underfunded public school in a dying Rust Belt town. Arthur was twenty-three at the time. His startup had just secured its first major round of funding, and the world was his oyster. He was brimming with energy, desperate to use his newfound wealth to do some good. I stood at the very back of the auditorium, craning my neck through the sea of heads to catch a glimpse of his striking, expressive face. He was so young—he looked more like a student than I did, with my heavy, dead-eyed exhaustion. I knew the principal thought this “rich kid” was an easy mark. He had padded the scholarship list with the kids of local politicians and school board members. I, who was actually on the verge of dropping out to work shifts at the local diner, had been pushed to the very bottom of the list. Small towns are like that. Corrupt in the pettiest of ways. I stood in line without a shred of hope, zoning out, trying to calculate how many shifts I’d need to afford rent once I quit school. The line moved fast. Suddenly, I was standing right in front of him. He looked at me, glanced down at my calloused hands and the frayed, muddy hems of my jeans, and knelt down slightly to meet my eyes. “I’m moving your name to the top of the list,” he said softly. “Focus on your grades. You won’t have to worry about college tuition, I promise.” “Mr. Harrison, you can’t—” the principal panicked. The top of the list meant a full-ride sponsorship. Arthur smiled and politely shut him down. He looked gentle, but his tone was absolute steel. Watching his profile, I suddenly felt like a weed that had sprouted in a manicured garden. A hot flush of shame crawled up my neck. I hid my hands behind my back, terrified he would look too closely at the scars on my knuckles or the cheap fabric of my clothes. He was out of my league in every conceivable way. Over the years, I watched him from afar in crowded rooms. He was a good man, fiercely dedicated to his foundation. Because our county was so poor, he came back every semester to check on the kids. We spoke privately a few times, but it was always strictly about my academics. He was warm, but it was the same blanket warmth he gave everyone else. From high school through college, I wrote him letters. Once a month, like clockwork. I was terrified that if I wrote too often, I’d annoy him, but if I wrote too little, he’d forget I existed. In one of his early replies, he jokingly asked why I was so formal. Why “Mr. Harrison”? The other kids called him Arthur. The bolder ones even called him Artie. I never dared tell him the truth. I wanted to be special. Even if that “specialness” was entirely in my own head. Like a stray dog guarding a bone, I quietly idolized him. He was my personal saint. Back then, I didn’t fully understand what my obsession was, or why I was so fiercely opposed to treating him like a peer. But lying in bed now, I finally understood. 5 I had just experienced my first wet dream. It wasn’t about the Hollywood actor my friends obsessed over, or the perfectly nice accountant my coworker had tried to set me up with. It was about Arthur. In the dream, his shirt was unbuttoned. He was lying back against my pillows, a faint, devastating flush on his cheeks. A slow smile spread across his lips as he asked me what I wanted to call him now. And dream-me was terrifyingly bold. I straddled him, burying my face in his neck, and murmured, “Mine.” Then I bit down softly on the little mole on his hand. I kissed my way up his forearm, and finally, I sucked on the dark mark near his collarbone until the pale skin around it bloomed into a violent red bruise. Arthur let out a low groan. “Harper,” he whispered, his voice dark and heavy. “Let me.” He turned his head, gripping my wrists, pressing his lips to my pulse point. He looked up at me through his lashes—feral, seductive, entirely in control. “I’m older than you,” he murmured. “I know more than you. I should be the one teaching you.” I woke up gasping for air. From the kitchen, I heard the loud hum of the exhaust fan. I scrambled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and practically ran into the kitchen. Standing by the stove was Jaxon. He was flipping an egg in a skillet with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung jeans. My pink checkered apron was tied around his waist, the thin straps stretching tightly across his muscular back. He heard me, turned around, and glared through the smoke. “Look what time it is. You finally awake?” I offered an awkward smile and reached for the skillet handle. Jaxon yanked it away, our forearms brushing. “Sit down, it’s almost done,” he snapped. “And go wake him up. He’s got this weird complex about being a burden. He’ll starve in there before he asks you for food.” I hurried over and knocked on the guest room door. “Come in.” I pushed the door open. Arthur was already awake, sitting perfectly straight at the desk. His hands were gently tracing the contours of a small clay sculpture. My heart dropped into my stomach. How the hell had I forgotten to hide that? It was a bust I had made during a weekend pottery class. Somehow, subconsciously, the face I had sculpted looked exactly like him. He’s blind, I reminded myself frantically. He can’t tell what it is. Arthur tilted his head up. In the morning light, the grey film over his eyes was highly visible. He smiled at the empty space in front of him. “Thank you for taking me in, Harper. Did you make this? I can’t quite feel what it’s supposed to be, but I imagine it’s beautiful.” “I made it, yeah.” His thumb gently brushed against the cheek of the clay face, right over a fingerprint I had accidentally left behind. I cleared my throat loudly, snatched the sculpture from his hands, and shoved it into a drawer. “It’s just a tree,” I lied smoothly. “It’s really poorly done. Don’t worry about it.” “A tree…?” Arthur murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. The way he smiled sent a sudden, electric jolt straight to my core, bringing the wet dream rushing back in vivid detail. My face burned. I hated myself in that moment. I felt entirely devoid of morals. This was Arthur Harrison. A fundamentally good man who had hit rock bottom. When he got back on his feet, he belonged with a refined, elegant woman from his own world. And here I was, a nobody whose life he had saved, harboring dirty, filthy thoughts about him while he was vulnerable. I was disgusting. I cursed myself a thousand times over, forcing the twisted, heavy desire out of my mind. But a dark, pessimistic voice in the back of my head whispered: How long is your willpower really going to last? Arthur turned his face toward the window, his expression serene. He didn’t know I had taken a silent step closer. I was so close I could see the fine, golden hairs on his jawline. “Is the sun out?” he asked softly. “I think… I think I can see a little bit of light.” “It is. It’s a beautiful day.” I stood there, just watching him. The sun warmed the earth, but Arthur had warmed my life. Standing in this tiny room, it felt as if my own personal saint had fallen right into my hands. 6 Breakfast was a struggle for him. His chopsticks kept missing his plate, clicking against the table. Without thinking, I picked up a piece of egg and guided it to his mouth. Arthur’s face flushed a deep red. He chewed, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Jaxon hadn’t touched his food. He sat across from us, arms crossed, watching the exchange with cold, hard eyes. He hadn’t said a word. “Jaxon, aren’t you going to eat?” I asked, baffled by the sudden mood swing. He had been fine in the kitchen. “I ate before my run. Not all of us sleep till noon,” he said, his voice flat and hard. “Jaxon! She works full time. There’s nothing wrong with sleeping in on a Saturday,” Arthur scolded, frowning. Jaxon stared at him deadpan, his jaw ticking as if he were grinding his teeth. Then, completely deliberately, Jaxon stretched his long legs out under the small table, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, you’re right! Good thing it’s Saturday. I’m staying here all day.” As he stretched, his foot bumped mine, forcing my knee directly into the side of Arthur’s thigh. I jerked back like I had been burned. Arthur didn’t seem to notice the contact. He just frowned in Jaxon’s direction. “Jaxon, behave.” “It’s fine,” I said quickly. “He’s family. I know he’s worried about leaving you here alone with me.” Arthur didn’t say anything else. But later, when Jaxon went to the bathroom for a smoke break, Arthur reached out, his fingers finding my sleeve. He leaned in close. Because of his blindness, his spatial awareness was shot. If I hadn’t leaned back, his chest would have pressed directly against mine. Arthur tilted his head slightly, his sightless eyes searching, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Why do you call him Jaxon?” “What?” “You’ve only ever called me Mr. Harrison.” “I—” My brain short-circuited. He was so close I could smell him. Clean soap, cedar, and the faint, warm scent of his skin. “Harper…” “I just—” Whatever shred of sanity I had left was rapidly evaporating. He looked so innocent. He clearly had no idea how intimate this was. No wonder. He couldn’t see the frantic, desperate pounding of my pulse at my throat. A ruined, beautiful man. Like a fragile glass chalice placed right at the edge of a table. If I just leaned in a fraction of an inch, I could kiss him. Would he even know it was my lips, or would he think my hand had brushed against him? I could lie to him. Clatter! I sprang out of my chair so fast it tipped over backwards. Arthur flinched violently. I grabbed his arms to keep him from falling, my teeth clamped shut to keep my emotions from spilling out. “I call you Mr. Harrison because you’re my benefactor.” “Can’t a benefactor be a friend?” “A benefactor is a benefactor.” The bathroom door clicked open. Jaxon stepped out, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He had the eyes of a feral wolf, and they locked directly onto me. I looked away, my face burning, praying he hadn’t seen exactly what I had been thinking. Jaxon just let out a low, mocking scoff. 7 After Arthur went to bed, Jaxon knocked on my bedroom door and let himself in. He dropped into my desk chair, sprawling his legs out, the silver stud in his ear catching the light. He tapped his knuckles on the desk like a detective at an interrogation. “Alright, out with it. What do you actually want?” “What?” “Are you after his equity? Corporate secrets? His contact list?” I laughed out loud. “I’m a middle manager at a logistics company. I have zero interest in tech equity or his billionaire contacts. Why would you even think that?” Jaxon’s face flushed. He was only eighteen, and his forced, hardened-man persona instantly cracked. He ran a hand over his buzzed head, frustrated. “Then you have to want something! Don’t tell me you… you want…” I looked at him, amused. He stammered, unable to finish his sentence, his face turning the color of a tomato. I sighed. “Do you read comics? I have the vintage Calvin and Hobbes box set in the living room if you’re bored.” Jaxon looked like he wanted to spontaneously combust. “Who the hell reads Calvin and Hobbes! Stop trying to change the subject!” Because he was Arthur’s kid, every time I looked at him, I saw traces of Arthur. It softened my edges. I looked at him gently. “Okay, take your time. What do you think I want?” He forced the words out like he was choking on them. “…Sex.” I blinked in surprise. Jaxon glared at me, defensive and utterly humiliated. When he saw that I looked genuinely shocked—and not a bit guilty—he realized he had severely misread the situation. Too proud to admit defeat, he raised his voice. “Fine! I get it! But you can’t blame me for thinking it! I’m good-looking, I’m built, girls literally line up outside the library to talk to me. I thought you were just using him to get to me!” His voice dropped to an embarrassed mumble. “He’s sponsored so many kids, and you’re the only idiot who actually showed up to wade into this mess. I thought you had an ulterior motive… I didn’t know you were just genuinely stupid.” He scratched his jaw, his bicep flexing. “I, uh… I misjudged you. My bad.” He stood up quickly. “Anyway. I’m gonna go do push-ups in the living room. See ya.” I shook my head, laughing softly. Half a second later, Jaxon ducked back into the room, grabbed the Calvin and Hobbes books off the shelf, and sprinted away. Who’s the stupid one here? 8 After Jaxon went back to his dorm, it was just Arthur and me. Over the next few days, I put tactile stickers on the microwave buttons and his meal prep containers. I added foam corner guards to all the furniture, and I bought him a folding cane so he could navigate the apartment safely. Most things were manageable. But there was one major hurdle: showering. I was terrified to leave him alone in the wet, slippery bathroom. But I also couldn’t just pull up a chair and sit outside the shower curtain like a creep. Arthur gave me a brave, strained smile. “It’s fine, Harper. I can manage.” The sheer vulnerability in his voice completely destroyed my hesitation. Fine. I’ll stand guard. I couldn’t risk him breaking a hip. I took his hand, guiding his fingers over the shampoo, the body wash, and the temperature dials, explaining everything until he had it memorized. Only then did I pull the curtain shut. The water turned on, and my mind instantly went into overdrive. Every single one of my senses was hyper-fixated on the silhouette behind the thin, frosted plastic curtain. I clenched my fists, staring aggressively at my own knees, trying to focus on literally anything else. “Harper.” Maybe it was the acoustics of the bathroom, but the way he dragged out my name sounded thick, low, and incredibly intimate. Intimate? I was losing my mind. I glared at my hands, wishing I could physically reach into my brain and scrub it with bleach. “Harper?” “Yeah?” I croaked, turning around. The curtain was pulled back an inch. A wet, muscular arm and a sliver of a sharp V-line were exposed. He held out his open palm, looking confused. “I’m sorry, my memory is failing me. Did I just pump the body wash or the shampoo?” “Body wash,” I said, my voice sounding incredibly tight. A deeply paranoid thought flickered through my brain: Is he… is he flirting with me? “Oh,” he smiled softly, looking down. “Losing my sight has made me so clumsy. So stupid.” The guilt hit me like a freight train. I was a monster for sexualizing this man’s tragedy. “You’re not stupid,” I whispered. To me, bankrupt or blind, he would always be the brilliant, kind man who changed the world. Even if he only changed my little corner of it. He wasn’t clumsy. He was surviving. The water shut off. “I’m done. But… I think I forgot to bring my clean clothes in.” “It’s okay. I have them.” I grabbed the neat stack of clothes from his bed and handed them around the curtain. “What’s this?” “Your t-shirt. The tag is in the back.” “And this?” “…” I coughed into my fist. “Your… boxers.” Arthur smiled warmly. “Thank you.” Once he was dressed, he pulled the curtain back. I took his arm to guide him out, but I noticed he was walking stiffly. “Are you okay?” Arthur’s ears turned crimson. He stayed silent for a long time before he finally muttered, “Harper, the underwear you bought me… I think it’s a size too small.” 9 I broke into a coughing fit. I felt a bizarre, overwhelming wave of guilt, like I was actively bullying a saint. Days passed. I went to work; Arthur stayed home. Things were peaceful. Except a few times, when I got off work early, I would hear a voice through his closed bedroom door. He seemed to be on phone calls—conference calls, maybe. The voice sounded like his, but completely devoid of the soft, broken vulnerability he showed me. This voice was ice-cold, commanding, and arrogant. Like a king executing his enemies. It sounded so different I convinced myself he must be listening to an audiobook. Because I was rushing home every day, my coworkers finally caught on. “Harper, do you have a boyfriend?” one of them asked, smirking. I shook my head frantically. She clapped her hands. “Oh, thank God. I thought I missed my window. That guy from accounting I set you up with? He really liked you. He wants to take you to dinner.” “How about tonight? No time like the present! He’s a great guy, tall, good benefits…” I vaguely remembered the guy. He was quiet, polite, and completely inoffensive. My coworker was so pushy I couldn’t find a polite way to say no, so I caved. Before I left the office, I called Arthur. I told him I had to work late and that I had ordered delivery for him. Arthur didn’t complain. He just told me to be careful and take an Uber home if it got too late. I wanted to explain that I wasn’t working, but I stopped myself. It was none of his business. He was just being polite. If I over-explained my whereabouts, he’d think I was full of myself. Dinner dragged on. By eight o’clock, my coworker, who had tagged along as a wingwoman, dragged us to a movie. When I finally got into an Uber to head home, I checked my phone. It was past 11 PM. I had five missed calls. All from Arthur. He had called exactly once every hour. Controlled, but borderline obsessive. He had left one text: Harper, where are you? I’m worried. When I unlocked the front door, I froze. Arthur was sitting on the hardwood floor in the dark. He was soaking wet. He was staring blankly ahead, the faint streetlights casting harsh shadows over his sharp cheekbones, making him look devastatingly frail and abandoned. I dropped my bag and rushed over, grabbing a towel from the bathroom to dry him off. “What happened to you?” “I slipped in the bathroom,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “My knee gave out. I couldn’t get up. I’m sorry, Harper. I’m such a burden to you.” “Where does it hurt?” I panicked, touching his leg. His knee was deeply bruised. The guilt was suffocating. I should never have silenced my phone for a stupid movie. I knew I had a blind man at home relying on me. How could I have been so selfish? I looked down at his damp hair. “I’m so sorry. I got held up.” Arthur shook his head slightly. “Where were you?” “…I met up with some friends.” Arthur’s eyelashes fluttered. “It sounds like you had a wonderful time. That’s good. I truly hate the idea that my broken body is ruining your normal life.” “You’re not broken! And you’re not ruining anything!” Arthur offered a pale, tragic smile. “Aren’t I? When you didn’t come home, I thought… I thought you had finally gotten sick of dealing with me.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh. “I was just… so lonely. I can’t see anything, the apartment was so quiet, and I panicked. That’s why I called you so many times. I’m sorry. I have no right to demand your time when you’ve already been so generous to me.” I stared at him in the dark. I took a deep breath, making a decision. “Stay here. I’ll go get you some dry clothes.” When I walked into his bedroom, I pulled out my phone and sent a polite rejection text to the guy from accounting. I told him I had personal commitments and no time to date. He took it gracefully, and we deleted each other’s numbers. I looked at the screen, a bitter smile crossing my face. I had to admit the truth to myself: Arthur Harrison was a lethal weapon, and I was completely defenseless against him. One slight frown, one tremble in his voice, and my vaunted self-control shattered into a million pieces. 10 Back in the bedroom. Arthur struggled to stand, leaning heavily on me before collapsing onto the edge of his bed. “I’m embarrassing myself,” he muttered. He fumbled weakly with his soaked shirt. “It’s fine. I can dress myself.” I couldn’t stand watching him struggle. “Let me help.” Before he could object, I added quickly, “Don’t worry, Mr. Harrison. I’ll blindfold myself. I won’t look.” “…Okay.” I grabbed a sheer silk scarf from my dresser and tied it over my eyes. It wasn’t until I had it knotted that I realized the fabric was too thin—I could still see the blurry outline of his body perfectly. But it was too late to change it now without making a scene. I gently took his hand and brought it up to my face, letting him feel the knot at the back of my head. “See? I’m completely blindfolded. You’re safe.” His pants were soaked through and heavy. With Arthur sitting on the edge of the bed, I had to step into his space, practically wrapping my arms around his waist to shimmy the wet denim down his hips. To get them past his calves, I had to kneel on the floor. Because my vision was obscured by the scarf, I was entirely focused on the stubborn denim. I didn’t realize how close I was. My face was inches from his lap; my warm breath was hitting his bare skin. As I pulled the jeans down, Arthur’s voice drifted down from above me. “Harper, you really can’t see anything right now?” “Nothing,” I lied. He let out a soft laugh. “It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it? I’ve dragged you into the dark with me.” I opened my mouth to laugh, but the sound died in my throat. Through the sheer veil of the scarf, I saw his dark grey boxer briefs. And the very prominent, very distinct shape pressing against the fabric. Arthur’s voice didn’t waver. He sounded casual, relaxed, perfectly normal. “It’s the weekend tomorrow. That little menace Jaxon is going to come barging in here. I wonder if he actually misses me, or if he’s just skipping track practice.” “Yeah,” I squeaked out automatically, my brain entirely offline. I blinked hard behind the silk. I wasn’t hallucinating. The shape was definitively growing. Suddenly, my fingers, which were resting near his waistband, felt like they were on fire. The skin-on-skin contact felt electric and terrifyingly intimate. I bit my lip, slowly pulling the denim the rest of the way down. My mind was screaming in panic. Do I act natural? Do I stop? If I stop, he’ll know I can see! Maybe it’s just biology, I rationalized wildly. Maybe it’s involuntary! Maybe he doesn’t even realize it’s happening! He was such a gentleman. He had almost starved to death rather than wake me up. If he knew I was kneeling directly in front of his raging erection, he’d probably throw himself out the window out of pure shame! My heart hammered against my ribs as I finally got the jeans past his knees. Suddenly, a large hand clamped down over mine, stopping me. “I can do the rest. Thank you.” I nearly collapsed with relief. I handed him the dry sweatpants and stepped back. As he pulled them up, he paused, clearing his throat lightly. “You haven’t taken the blindfold off yet.” He sounded almost bashful. “Why don’t you leave it on for a bit? We can just talk for a while. Two blind people sitting in the dark.” I sat down heavily in the desk chair, my face burning like a furnace. “Okay.” For a long time, neither of us said a word. Two people, in the dark, harboring terrifying secrets. It wasn’t until the swelling in his sweatpants finally, agonizingly subsided that Arthur lifted his head and, with that same perfect smile, asked me what I wanted to do for breakfast. Adults truly are spectacular liars.
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