He didn’t open it. He didn’t read it. He didn’t even hesitate.
He simply set the phone face down on the nearest table outside the café we’d wandered past…And then his hand came up—slow, deliberate—and his thumb brushed the corner of my mouth.
His knuckles traced my cheek. His eyes held mine like they were something he’d been starving for.
“Penn,” he said, voice rough silk. “You don’t belong to anyone who makes you smaller.”
The wind carried the warmth of coffee beans, sea salt, and the faint sweetness of someone’s pastry drifting past. The whole street blurred into nothing but him.
And then he stepped closer.
Close enough that the heat of him soaked into my skin.
Close enough that I could feel every unspoken word vibrating in his chest.
“You’re allowed to be happy,” he whispered. “With me. Without me. Anywhere. Withanyoneyou choose.”
My heart stuttered. Because he meant it.
Because it wasn’t a claim. It was freedom disguised as desire.
Before I could speak, Peter pulled the sedan to the curb and opened the door like he already knew we needed a soft exit.
Dane guided me inside with a gentle touch at the small of my back.
My phone stayed on the table.
Peter retrieved it silently and handed it to Dane through the window. Dane didn’t even look at the screen, he just tucked it into his pocket, like he’d take the hits for me if he had to.
The door shut. The engine hummed. Heat pooled between us, all thigh-brushes and breathless tension.
Our hands kept grazing, little accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all. My pinky brushed his knuckle, his thumb skimmed the side of my palm, and every time, a spark zipped through me. Tiny. Electric. Addictive.
Then finally—finally—his fingers found mine.
Not fully intertwining. Not yet. Just the tips. Grazing. Testing. Like he was touching a memory and didn’t trust it to stay. I didn’t pull away.
He spoiled me after that—quietly, effortlessly, in ways that felt like he’d memorized every dream I’d buried.
And the rest of the day unfolded like honey dripping slowly.
Sunlight filtered through the car windows, dust motes swirling like tiny galaxies around us. Dane watched them, watched me watching them, and smirked like the whole universe was conspiring with him.
We wandered through old bookshops where cracked leather spines leaned tiredly against each other and the air smelled like forgotten decades. Dust drifted in lazy spirals as sunlight cut across aisles, the warmth catching the edges of my hair.
Dane watched me like he was storing the moment in his bloodstream.
His smile wasn’t the cocky, sharp one he gave the world. It was soft. Barely there.Almost shy.
And every time I lifted a book, his gaze went to my fingers, slow, thoughtful, like he wanted to kiss the ink off my skin.
We moved to antique stores, record shops, places filled with velvet chairs and ancient typewriters. My dream publishing house, alive in broken pieces of other eras.
We drove to office spaces “for fun,” or at least that’s what he pretended.
Tall windows. Exposed brick. Quiet corners begging for books and manuscripts. He saw the way my eyes lingered on a vintage publisher’s desk with brass handles, and whispered, “This suits you.”
Like he already pictured me there. Like he’d place the whole damn world at my feet if I asked.
