“You don’t get to come back and say the right things now,” I whispered.“Not without proof.”
“I’m not asking you to believe me tonight,” he said.“Just let me start showing you.”
My breath shuddered.
“I’m done being afraid of how much you fucking matter to me,” he said.“I’m done pretending I don’t want this.”
I opened my eyes.“I want more than passion.More than protection.”
“So do I.”His gaze held mine.“I want a life.”
Silence stretched between us.Thick.Fragile.
Then I nodded.
“Yes,” I whispered.
I rose onto my toes and kissed him.
Creed didn’t rush it.Didn’t take.When his hands slid to my waist, they were steady.Certain.He held me like the moment mattered, like restraint was part of the promise.
My lips parted against him.His tongue swept into my mouth, and heat surged low in my belly.He kissed me like he’d spent months dreaming about this moment.Like he’d been waiting for it as long as I had.
When I pulled back, breathless, I pressed my forehead to his chest.
“I’m not asking for perfect,” I said.“But don’t run.”
His hand slid up my spine, his touch steady.“I’m not going anywhere.”
I leaned back just enough to meet his eyes.“Prove it.”
His mouth curved—not smug.Determined.“I plan to.”
He kissed me again, slower this time, like intention instead of hunger.
And for the first time since Christmas morning, I let myself believe staying was possible.
* * *
THE NEXT FEW WEEKSwere complicated.
The anonymous phone calls stopped.I didn’t know whether that meant the danger had passed or simply gone dormant, but I accepted the quiet with cautious gratitude.I never logged back into the account.Part of me didn’t want to confirm the truth again.Some things, once seen, couldn’t be unseen.
With the immediate threat receding, slipping back into Creed’s life should have been easy.He was Creed Kirkland, after all.Dominant.Controlling.A force that bent rooms to his will.
But this time was different.
Because he was trying.
And that terrified me more than if he hadn’t.
At work, he reentered my life without spectacle.He reclaimed boardrooms and commanded meetings with the same lethal precision as always, but with me, the dynamic had shifted.He didn’t loom.He didn’t override.He listened.
He still carried authority in his posture, in the way executives straightened when he entered a room.But when his gaze landed on me, it softened.Not weak.Intentional.
It made my chest ache.
Professionally, nothing had changed.We still ran the magazine together.My office remained down the hall from his.Meetings stayed sharp, disagreements still sparked.
