Gideon’s lips curved slightly.
A flicker of amusement.
Then a glint of challenge.
“I can handle that.”
?
The inner lounge was quieter than usual.
The muffled sounds of the main room vanished as the door closed, replaced by the hush of low light and quiet that seemed to settle over everything.
Arden dropped into the leather chair, the cushions pulling her in like they remembered her shape.
Worn comfort. Weighted silence.
Gideon moved to the bar cart. Calm. Unhurried.
He poured two fingers of bourbon into both glasses, then handed her one. The light caught in the amber just long enough to feel intentional.
Their fingers brushed. Barely.
But the weight of the glass in her hand wasn’t the only thing grounding her.
“Stiff enough for you?” His tone was light and effortless. But his eyes weren’t.
She took a sip. The burn bloomed—warm. Familiar. Necessary.
“It’ll do.”
They sat in a quiet that wasn’t awkward.
It didn’t demand to be filled. It simply settled.
Arden traced the rim of her glass with her thumb.
Her thoughts knotted, tangled in places she rarely visited.
“You’re different, ya know.” Gideon’s voice was steady, but something in it caught her attention. Something that felt… true.
Her brow lifted. A smirk slid into place like armor. “Careful, Blackwell. That almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Almost?”
“Maybe if you said it like you meant it.”
His gaze didn’t flinch. “I meant it.”
The quiet betweenthem cracked open. Not with tension, but invitation.
She hesitated. Her heartbeat a steady thunder in her ears.
Fuck. What the hell am I doing?
But the way he watched her, steady and without judgment, made it okay to open her mouth. To try.
She wet her lips with another slow drink. The bourbon braced her.
