Like a man adjusting his mask.
He steps closer.
One step.
Another.
Until he’s standing directly in front of me, his breath brushing my cheek, his fingers reaching up—not gently—to touch the locket.
His thumb presses hard against the metal.
“When did you get this?” he asks.
I swallow again.
My tongue is thick.
My vision wavers.
“I told you?—”
“Noah.” His name sounds like it breaks in my throat. “I don’t… I don’t want to fight.”
He steps closer.
Still touching the locket.
Still staring at me like he’s peeling my skin back layer by layer.
“Then don’t lie.”
My stomach twists.
My breath stutters.
He leans down, lips brushing the edge of my jaw in a way that should feel intimate but feels like surveillance.
“You look different,” he murmurs.
My chest tightens.
“You’re shaking.”
“I’m hungover,” I whisper.
“No.” His hand slides from the locket to my wrist, fingers cold, grip firm. “It’s more than that.”
I pull my wrist away too quickly.
His eyes darken.
He notices everything.
“Where were you last night?” he asks again, voice lower, tighter. “Before you passed out downstairs.”
His breath brushes my cheek.
His cologne curls around me like a trap.
