Like this is the part where I apologise for existing.
Where I say something normal, polite — the kind of thing brothers of best friends are supposed to say.
But I don’t do polite.
I step closer, and she shifts her weight as if she might bolt.
She won’t.
She wants this.
Wants me.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
“You always stare like that?” I ask, my voice low, gravel-cut, carrying the weight of battlefields and secrets under its breath.
Her eyes flash up to mine and away again so fast I almost miss it.
Almost.
“Didn’t mean to,” she mumbles, heat blooming high on her cheeks.
“But you did.”
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t have to.
I can feel it in the way she holds herself too still.
In the way her fingers twitch against the hem of her dress, as if she doesn’t trust them not to wander.
I take another step.
Now I’m too close.
Her breath catches.
My gaze drops to her lips—full, parted, trembling just a little—and I feel the crack in my armour widen.
She’s dangerous.
Not because she could hurt me.
But because I might let her try.
Because I’m already fucking imagining what she looks like begging.
Because I haven’t wanted anything in a long time.
And now all I want is her on her knees, whispering my name like a prayer she knows won’t save her.
She doesn’t move.
Not away.
Not closer.
