She sees me.
Stops.
Doesn’t speak.
Not even a weak joke or a rambling observation about water pressure or tile grout. Her eyes flick away fast—too fast—and she edges along the wall like she might disappear into it.
And that’s when I know.
She’s going to run.
Not from the building.
From me. From us.
I stay in the chair. Don’t stand. Don’t bark. Just track her like a sniper waiting for the target to come into range.
Still nothing.
Her silence isn’t just rare—it’s unnatural.
So I do something I’ve never done in my life.
I speak first.
“You want to talk about it?”
Her head jerks up, startled. Eyes wide. She blinks. Looks away.
Then shakes her head.
Just once.
That should be enough. End of conversation.
But something in me rebels.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, voice low. Grit and steel.
“Well, if you won’t…” I say, “then I damn well will.”
She flinches. Barely, but it’s there. Her eyes flick to mine—uncertain. Braced for impact.
Good.
“Whatever you’re doing in that pretty little brain of yours—whatever spiral you’re building—stop. Don’t twist it. Don’t sterilize it. Don’t start calling it adrenaline or heat-of-the-moment bullshit just because the world tells you women shouldn’t want what you wanted.”
She still doesn’t look at me. Her lips part. She swallows.
I keep going.
“Don’t you dare rewrite what happened. Don’t sit there and pretend it wasn’t real. That it wasn’t good. That it wasn’t the most fucking honest, raw, perfect sex I’ve ever had in my life.”
That gets her attention.
Eyes on me now. Wide. Shocked. A little afraid. Not of me. Of what I’m saying.
Good.
