I’d been proud of myself for that.
I was still proud.
But pride didn’t explain why my hands had been shaking as I’d left the path. Or why his voice—low and rough and maddeningly calm—had followed me long after I’d put distance between us.
Back inside, Dominion Hall felt different.
Too warm. Too enclosed.
I moved through it like I was underwater, nodding when people spoke, answering when necessary, my thoughts circling one thing over and over again.
The way he’d looked at me.
Not like the men who’d called me sweet. Or safe. Or good.
He’d looked at me like I was something unexpected.
Something that didn’t belong where it had appeared.
I didn’t linger.
I made my polite goodbyes, accepted assurances that we’d be in touch, and left Dominion Hall with my heart thudding too hard for a simple business meeting.
The drive home was a blur of green and asphalt and half-formed thoughts.
By the time I reached my condo, my body felt restless in a way I didn’t have words for. My skin too tight. My thoughts looping back to the same image over and over again.
Him.
His stillness.
The weight of his attention, even when he hadn’t been trying to give it.
I told myself it was nothing.
Just nerves.
Just embarrassment.
Just the residue of being out of my depth.
But when I closed the door behind me and leaned back against it, the quiet hit all at once.
And with it—something else.
Heat.
Low. Insistent. Unfamiliar.
I slid my sandals off and crossed the small living room, heart racing like I’d done something wrong even though I hadn’t done anything at all. My bedroom felt like a refuge and a confession at the same time.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms into the mattress, trying to breathe.
This was ridiculous.
I didn’t do this.
I didn’t react like this.
