The sentence was soft, her usual sharpness smoothed into something less defensive.
He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to.
His hand flexed at her waist. Intentional. Barely there. Felt.
“And you don’t like surprises.”
Her fingers curled, reflexive and light, against the fabric of his shirt. He felt it. She knew he did.
“No,” she said simply, like the word itself was a truth she couldn’t dress up.
His thumb moved against her side, slow and thoughtless.
Except it wasn’t.
She inhaled—too quick.
A shift.
Closer.
He leaned in, close enough for his breath to graze her skin, close enough to stir something unsteady beneath it.
“So why are you still here?”
The question settled in her chest, somewhere between a warning and a dare.
She didn’t answer. Not with words. Not yet.
Instead, she moved with him. Slowly. Carefully. Like a flame she didn’t know whether to touch or contain.
Her hand gripped his shoulder tighter. Not a decision. A reaction.
He didn’t look at her mouth like other men would have.
He looked at her throat—at the pulse fluttering beneath her skin.
His fingers pressed again, a fraction more pressure, enough to brand.
She didn’t pull away. He didn’t either.
What am I doing?
The thought came fast, uninvited. But she didn’t step back.
Didn’t stop him.
Didn’t stop herself.
Finally, he exhaled.
Pulled back enough to let air return to the room, but not enough to create real distance. Not yet.
His hand slipped away slowly, like he didn’t want to break contact too fast—she might disappear.
Her skin burned where he’d touched her.
She lifted her chin, masking the tension with a practiced smirk.
