When he finally stops, he’s close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him. His scent—wood smoke, expensive fabrics, skin—wraps around me like a thread pulling tight.
“Next time,” he says, low, “you call me.”
The statement jolts me. “Makari, you don’t get to demand that.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re my boss,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Not my lifeline.”
His eyes darken. For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. I can almost hear the words he’s swallowing, the urge to contradict me.
“I’m her father,” he growls. And then, carefully: “I can fix this.”
“I don’t need you to fix it.”
“You do.”
I take a step back. “Absolutely not.”
“Roxanne…” He exhales, and there’s something like restraint in the sound, something frayed at the edges. “You are raising my daughter.”
The words shouldn’t make my stomach drop the way they do. They shouldn’t mean anything beyond logistics or shared responsibility. But there’s gravity in them—pull, claim, a note he can’t seem to silence.
“I’ve been raising her for six years,” I say softly. “Alone.”
His expression tightens. It’s as if his pride is wounded.
“And I wasn’t there,” he admits.
The honesty in his voice startles me. Makari doesn’t offer vulnerability—not to anyone. Certainly not to me.
Before I can respond, he steps closer. The space between us shrinks until I’m backed against the edge of a wide walnut desk, one I’ve only ever seen from the outside. Up close, it’s imposing: heavy, carved, polished to a dark sheen. It suits him.
“You’re overwhelmed,” he says. “Your mother is gone. The sitter is unreliable. You’re unpacking, moving, and trying to keep the world from burning down.” His eyes dip to my mouth and then back up. “And you won’t let me help.”
His voice sinks lower on those last words, and the sound curls inside me in a way that’s deeply unfair. This feelsdifferentfrom how it’s been before. This feels like vulnerability.
“I’m trying to keep boundaries,” I whisper, ignoring the way my hands tremble.
“Boundaries.” He tastes the word like it’s foreign. “Between us?”
“Yes.”
His gaze sweeps down my body, lingering where it shouldn’t. “You’re failing.”
Heat rushes through me. I hate the way my breath catches. I hate the way he notices.
“You can’t bark orders at me,” I say, stepping sideways, trying to break the spell. “And I can’t just run up here every time you snap your fingers.”
“You came.”
“I came because you told me to.”
“And you listened,” he says quietly.
That stings. Because it’s true.
He moves closer. “You don’t want distance. If you did, you wouldn’t be shaking.”
