Mila’s cheeks flush. “I’m a writer. It’s… a hazard.”
“Mm,” I murmur. “Dangerous.”
She laughs, but it’s nervous. “You make me nervous.”
The honesty in her voice punches the air out of my lungs.
I turn my head toward her fully. “Why.”
Because it’s not a question. It’s a need.
Mila’s eyes are wide, shining in the firelight. “Because you’re… you.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
She swallows. “Because you look at me like you’re thinking things.”
I don’t deny it.
I lean closer, just a little, enough that I feel her warmth. Enough that her scent—clean soap, cocoa, something soft—fills my lungs.
“I am thinking things,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches. “Like what?”
I lift a hand—slow, giving her time—then touch the edge of her messy bun where a strand of hair has escaped. I wrap it around my finger gently.
Mila goes still like a skittish animal.
But she doesn’t pull away.
“I’m thinking,” I say, voice low, “that you’re brave for coming up here alone.”
Her lips part.
“I’m thinking you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
Her eyes flick down to my mouth—then back up fast.
“And I’m thinking,” I add, letting the words drag, “that I shouldn’t want to touch you as much as I do.”
Silence.
The fire pops.
Mila’s voice comes out small. “Why shouldn’t you?”
Because wanting is how you lose control.
Because wanting turns into needing.
Because needing turns into pain.
I don’t say any of that.
Instead, I slide my fingers under her chin and tilt her face up gently. “Because I’m not… good at this.”
Mila’s brows knit. “At what?”
