It feels like he’s looking for a trap.
There isn’t one.
Just me.
Just this.
Just years of held breath finally exhaled.
“I can’t promise I won’t want you,” I whisper. “I can’t promise I won’t still push your buttons. But I can walk away from this moment. If that’s what you really want.”
The silence stretches.
My pulse thunders in my ears.
His lips part. He inhales, slow, like he’s drawing in the last clean breath before a dive. “I don’t want you to walk away,” he says.
The words hit me like a physical thing and warmth floods my chest.
He still doesn’t move.
Doesn’t close the distance.
Doesn’t pull me in.
Because of course he doesn’t.
He’s Knight.
He’ll break his own bones before he risks breaking mine.
So I move instead.
Slowly.
Carefully.
I lean in, my nose brushing his, our mouths hovering a breath apart.
“Then stop fighting me,” I whisper.
His control snaps.
Just a little.
His hand leaves the blanket, cupping the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. The touch is firm and gentle at the same time, like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he holds on too tight.
He doesn’t pull me in.
He lets me choose it.
So I do.
I close the last inch and press my mouth to his.
The kiss is soft at first.
Tentative.
