“And if I don’t?” I asked.
His fingers flexed slightly. “Then we stand here together.”
The restraint in his voice did something to me.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I said, surprised by the confession.
His gaze softened. “You’re not.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
The world narrowed to the two of us, standing fully clothed in a room full of naked truth.
I turned slightly toward him. He mirrored the movement without thinking.
Our shoulders brushed.
The contact was brief.
It felt seismic.
My breath caught. His did, too—I heard it.
He stilled, like he was giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
My fingers lifted, almost without permission, brushing the sleeve of his jacket. Just fabric. Just a test.
His hand came up slowly, deliberately, resting against my waist—not gripping, not pulling. Just there.
Grounding.
Claiming.
The room faded.
My skin hummed under his touch.
“This is a bad idea,” I murmured.
“Yes,” he agreed.
Neither of us moved.
Our faces were close now. Close enough that I could see the faint line between his brows. The controlled tension in his jaw.
“Connor,” I said, barely audible.
He exhaled. “Mila.”
The way he said my name—steady, reverent—undid something in me.
I leaned in.
He met me halfway.
