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“Relax, Maksim. I’m not here for you,” he says as his attention shifts back to Tristan, warm and familiar in a way that makes my stomach turn. “I’m here to see you.”

Tristan’s expression doesn’t change much, but his voice does. It hardens.

“How did you get the passcode to my apartment?”

Jake blinks at him, like the question itself is ridiculous.

“This used to be our apartment, Tristan.”

“Used to be,” Tristan says, and there’s nothing warm in his voice now. “It hasn’t been for years. So why are you here? How did you get it?”

Jake rolls his eyes and sighs, folding his arms as he studies Tristan as if he’s the unreasonable one. Just the sight of them looking at each other makes something sick and furious crawl up my skin. I hate it. I hate the history in it. I hate the familiarity. I hate that Tristan isn’t looking at him with the kind of hatred I want him to. I hate that he doesn’t seem remotely rattled. Most of all, I hate that his attention isn’t on me.

“Your mother called me,” Jake says, and now there’s something warm in his voice, something infuriatingly gentle. “Said you weren’t answering anyone’s calls. She mentioned you’ve been in a mood all day and gave me the code to come check on you.”

“There’s no need,” Tristan says immediately, dismissive and cool. “You can go now. I’m fine.”

“Tristan—”

“Jesus, dude, you can clearly see he’s fine.” I cut in, pouring as much anger into the words as I could without lunging at him.

Jake’s eyes drift to mine, slowly this time, his gaze dragging up and down my body with an expression I can’t fully read. Something about it sends a violent pulse through me. It feels mocking. It feels knowing. It feels like he’s measuring me and enjoying what he sees.

I’m already on my feet, halfway to deciding I’m going to punch him in the face just to wipe that look off his expression, when Tristan moves in front of me so fast it almost feels instinctive.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice calm and controlled, carrying that quiet authority that usually works on me more than I’d care to admit.

I let out a humorless laugh. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

Jake lets out a chuckle under his breath, and the sound makes my jaw tighten. His eyes gleam with pure mischief, as if he’s enjoying every second of this.

“You really do know how to piss yourself off, Maksim,” he says, rolling his eyes. Then, like the smug bastard he is, he adds, “Do your brothers know you’re here playing house with my ex-husband?”

That changes Tristan immediately, and I feel him stiffen. He turns toward Jake, and this time the anger shows in the set of his shoulders and the tone of his voice.

“I think it’s time for you to leave.”

“You think?” I say with a scoff.

Tristan turns back to me, a warning in his eyes so clear it doesn’t need words. I hold his gaze and glare back, because fuck his warnings, fuck his calm, and fuck the way he always manages to look like the only person in the room not about to lose their mind. But I don’t say anything else, because even I know which lines not to cross while Jake is still standing here to enjoy it.

Tristan turns back to Jake.

“I need you to leave,” he says, and his voice now carries that quiet authority that doesn’t invite argument. “I’m fine. You can tell my mother that.”

“Fine then,” Jake shrugs, like he’s the reasonable one here. “I’m not leaving without my jacket, though.”

Tristan frowns. “What jacket?”

“The one I left here on Monday when I slept over,” Jake replies. This time, he meets my gaze as he says it. “It’s in your bedroom.”

I blink, and for a second I hear nothing else. All I can think about is Monday.

Monday?

The same day Tristan fucked me over my father’s desk. The same day he had his hands on me, his mouth on mine, and his body all over mine, as if I were the only thing he wanted. And somehow, in the middle of all that, this man had been here too. In this apartment. Sleeping here. In Tristan’s bedroom.

The thought turns my stomach.