“I did not fall,” I argue.
“You absolutely fell.”
“I slipped.”
“Into my arms.”
I glare down at him. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Immensely.”
I roll my eyes and reach for the lights.
That’s when they tangle.
Around my wrists.
My waist.
My shoulder.
I freeze.
“Dax.”
He looks up.
And stops breathing.
Red lights blink around me, casting everything in a soft, dangerous glow. His gaze drags slow, unfiltered, taking me in like he’s done pretending he doesn’t want to.
“You’re glowing for me,” he says low. “Finally.”
Heat flashes through me.
“Don’t say things like that,” I utter.
“Why?” He steps closer. “Because you might believe them?”
“Because it’s not fair.”
“To who?”
“To me,” I say. “To you.”
His hands come up, untangling the lights with deliberate care. Fingers warm. Steady. Confident.
“I’m not the one pretending,” he says.
My breath stutters.
“You don’t get to say that,” I whisper.
“I get to say whatever I want,” he replies. “I’ve earned that.”
I shove his chest lightly. “You don’t know what I want.”
He catches my wrist.
