“You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
He tilted his head. “Do what?”
She exhaled, the words catching somewhere in the space between shame and gratitude.
“Hold me.”
A breath.
“Make it feel like I wasn’t too much.”
His eyes darkened, not with heat, but with a depth that went bone-deep.
He reached for her hand, slowly brushing over her knuckles before curling his fingers around hers.
“Arden,” he said, voice roughened by conviction. “Last night wasn’t about me. It was about you. What you needed.”
Her throat tightened again, and she hated that it made her feel so exposed. So seen.
How did he do that?
How did he touch her without laying a single claim, but make her feel like he’d claimed everything?
“I don’t know how to let someone do that,” she murmured, eyes fixed on their joined hands.
She didn’t know how to stay, or how to stop believing that every battle had to be fought alone.
His hand tightened enough to anchor her.
“You did,” he said simply. And then, after a moment that felt like a lifetime: “And you can.”
The truth in his voice was gentle. Certain. Undeniable.
And she believed him.
Even if only for a moment.
Even if the believing was the bravest thing she’d done in years.
The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—itwas expectant. Like the air between them had thickened with everything left unsaid.
Her pulse skipped, her nerves flickering beneath the surface as a question rose in her throat, daring her to say it aloud.
She didn’t overthink it.
“Gideon.”
The sound of his name—low, instinctive, a little too intimate—slipped out before she could catch it.
Not loud.
But it hit its mark.
He turned, gaze sharp and dialed in, like she’d cut straight through whatever quiet thoughts he’d been having.
One arm rested behind his head, the other sprawled across his abs like he had nowhere to be, every inch of him unbothered.
He looked like a man who could stay like that forever.
