I let the words settle. Watch her process.
One breath. Two. She takes a final step. Close enough that I can touch her.
Pause.
She doesn’t move.
Just stands there, eyes locked on mine, the weight of everything I said hanging in the space between us like smoke. Wide-eyed. Wrecked. Thinking so hard I can practically hear the gears grinding.
But I see it.
The flicker in her eyes. The indecision. The way her shoulders square. The way her chin lifts.
Her lips part.
She’s calculating. Spiraling. Processing.
And even though her body’s still, her mind’s a fucking cyclone—I can see it. Hell, I can feel it. That push-pulltearing her up inside.
Then her lips part.
“Food,” she says.
Barely audible. Barely more than a breath. But I hear it like a detonation.
“You want food?”
She blinks. Swallows. Regroups. Tries again—stronger.
“Yes, please.” Her chin lifts, defiant, but her voice wavers. Not weakness. Just too much truth in one breath. “I need—a minute before I can survive you again.”
Fuck.
I feel that. Right there. Deep in my ribs. It does something to me I can’t name. She’s not rejecting what happened. Not running from it. Not denying it.
She’s just bracing for the next time.
Because she knows it’s coming.
The fire that surges in me isn’t pride. It’s something heavier. Fiercer. A deep, slow burn of possession that tightens my grip on the air between us.
She’s not against more.
She wants it.
She’s just trying to survive it.
Survive me.
I nod once. Step back just enough to give her room. I don’t smile. I don’t gloat. But I don’t miss the irony, either.
I arch a brow.
“Well,” I say, tone dry, “isn’t this a change? Me spending all the words while you’re holding on to yours.”
She looks at me, mouth twitching like she wants to smile.
“I’m just processing,” she mutters.
