“Come inside.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“Okay.”
He didn’t lead.
He didn’t pull.
He waited.
And she took the step herself.
The room wasn’tlavish or cold—it was lived in. A quiet kind of worn, softened not by decor, but by presence. The scent of spice and temptation lingered in the air, unmistakably him.
It wrapped around her before she’d even stepped inside.
Arden hovered in the doorway, fingers brushing the collar of her coat. Like one more step was significant. She wasn’t sure what, but she felt it in her chest like a warning.
She’d faced down chaos. Stared down threats. She knew how to brace for danger.
But this?
This was different entirely.
Gideon said nothing and didn’t crowd her. He waited quietly.
She removed her coat and laid it across an armchair. A simple act, but it felt seismic. As if she’d crossed into a version of herself she wasn’t used to being.
“I don’t know how to do this,” she said at last, her voice low. Not timid. Honest.
The admission landed between them with more weight than she expected.
Gideon crossed the space like gravity pulled him forward. No urgency. No resistance.
His hands rose—rough palms brushing her jaw, thumbs tracing her cheekbones with aching precision. He didn’t grasp or demand.
He simply… touched. Anchored.
“You don’t need to,” he murmured. “Just let me be here.”
A quiet steadiness rose in her. Not all the way, but enough.
She nodded. A small motion. But for her, it was surrender wrapped in instinct.
Not defeat, but deeper. A kind of permission.
She drifted toward the dresser, fingers gliding along the wood like it held a current. No words. No glances back. A pause, a breath, and then she opened the drawer.
Her hand closed around the black tee—soft, broken-in, steeped in his scent. A tightness curled low in her chest. She brushed her fingers over the cotton, then closed her hand around it and walked toward the bathroom.
Her eyes flicked back to him.
Not asking.
Not explaining.
Only checking to see if he was still there.
