She smiles. It’s small. Gentle. Enough to carve me open.
Then she does something I’m not prepared for.
She reaches out and touches my hand. Barely a graze. Fingertips warm. Soft.
But it hits me like a blow to the sternum.
My pulse surges. My muscles tighten. My breath falters.
Her eyes widen—she feels it too.
She pulls her hand back quickly, like she accidentally touched a flame.
Torres, the asshole, hollers from the table: “Ramirez! You gonna break the rest of the silverware or can I eat in peace?”
Savannah steps back. The spell breaks.
But the heat doesn’t fade.
Not even a little.
We both return to our seats, acting like nothing happened.
Acting like I’m not one slow inhale away from losing every ounce of restraint I’ve rebuilt since she left.
She sits. Laughs softly at Cole. Tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.
And I—idiot that I am—watch her.
Every movement. Every smile. Every glance.
She looks across the table again, her eyes lingering a fraction longer than before.
Not an accident.
Not imagination.
A challenge.
My jaw tightens when Torres makes some joke that draws her into a bright grin.
Possessiveness flares hot and ugly in my chest.
I want to tell him to shut up.
I want to drag her outside and ask her why she left without me.
I want to tell her I wrote to her every month for a decade.
I want to tell her I rebuilt my family’s home on the ashes of the night I lost her.
I want to tell her that every time I look at her, I feel the same thing I did when I was sixteen and stupid and in love.
But I say none of those things.
Instead I grip my fork until the metal warps again.
Savannah sees.
