Her breath hitches. “You’re not even trying to pretend this is for my sake anymore, are you?”
The honesty is a knife to both of us.
I look at her, really look at her—eyes bright with angry tears she refuses to let fall, fingers clenched too tight around ceramic, chest heaving. She’s shaking from fear and fury, trapped and knowing it, yet still trying to fight me with words instead of breaking down.
I step closer.
Her shoulders tense, but she holds her ground.
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Do you understand how terrifying it is to know someone like you has decided my life is his to manage?”
“Yes,” I say. “I understand it perfectly.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“It does,” I admit. “Just not in the way you want it to.”
Her hand starts to tremble harder. I reach out before she drops the mug and wrap my fingers around her wrist, steadying it. The move is deliberate. Not gentle, not harsh—controlled. Claiming.
She freezes at the touch. “Don’t,” she whispers, eyes wide.
“You’re shaking,” I say quietly. “You’re going to burn yourself.”
“You don’t get to act like you’re comforting me.”
“I’m not trying to comfort you.”
“Then what are you doing?” Her gaze searches mine desperately, like she’s hoping to find a crack she can use against me. “What do youwantfrom me, Simon?”
More than I should. More than I’ve let myself want from anyone.
“Your attention,” I say finally. “Your honesty. Your… presence.”
She stares at me like I’ve said something obscene.
I ease the mug out of her hand and set it on the nearest surface. Then, without letting go of her wrist, I let my thumb slide just once over the pulse pounding there.
Her reaction is immediate. Eden’s breath stutters. Her pupils flare. Her shoulders twitch like she wants to pull away but can’t quite make herself move.
Heat rushes through me at the feel of her pulse under my touch—rapid, alive, responding tome. It’s intoxicating. Dangerous. Exactly what I wanted and more than I planned on feeling.
She jerks her hand back like she’s grabbed a live wire.
“Don’t touch me,” she says. The words wobble. “Don’t… don’tdothat.”
I let her go, but my fingers curl slightly, remembering the shape of her wrist.
She backs up a step, then another, until her shoulder hits the wall. She’s rattled now, breathing fast, eyes locked on me with a new kind of awareness.
Not just fear. Recognition?
“You can’t keep me like this,” she says again, but the fight has changed. It’s not just about escape now. It’s about what’s flickering between us, about the way her body responds even when her mind screams at it not to.
I realize, with a clarity that settles low and heavy in my chest, that I’m not ready to let her go. Not when she looks at me like that—terrified and furious and lit up with something that feels too much like want. Not when every part of me is already adjusting my world to make space for her.
“Eden,” I say, and her name feels like a vow. “You walked into my life the night you hid behind that dumpster.”
“That wasn’t a choice.”
