For a heartbeat, the world holds its breath. Then he leans in, his forehead hovering just shy of mine, shadows rising around us like they’re sealing us in.
“Sunshine,” he murmurs, voice rough and restrained and threaded with something dangerous, “if I stop holding back…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. But the way he looks at me makes it very clear what he means.
“I want you too.”
His nostrils flare. His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there, then drags back up to my eyes. He licks his lips slowly, as if he’s grounding himself—like he’s reminding his body who’s supposed to be in control.
He isn’t.
“Don’t say that,” he mutters, but there’s no real warning in it. Just conflict.
“Why?” I ask softly, my hands curling into the front of his coat. I can feel his pulse now—fast, unsteady. “Because you don’t want me… or because you’re afraid you do?”
His breath stutters.
The shadows surge, thickening around us, swallowing the hallway whole until there’s nothing left but the two of us and the quiet hum of magic in the air.
“I’ve been trying to protect you,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “From what I know. From what I feel.”
“And what if I don’t need protecting from you?” I whisper.
I see it before he moves. He cups my face fully this time, hands warm and steady despite everything else unraveling, and presses his mouth to mine.
Electricity shoots through me at the touch of his lips against mine. Holy fuck. My whole body feels as though it lights up from the inside out.
His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, thumb warm against my skin, anchoring me as if the ground itself might give way. I feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the proof that this costs him something—that letting go has never been easy for him.
He pulls me closer, not crushing, but close enough that I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt—fast, uneven, completely at odds with the control he usually wears like armor. The kiss deepens, his restraint fraying in small, honest ways: a sharper inhale, the brief press of his forehead to mine before he kisses me again, as if he needs to steady himself even as he gives in.
It feels like being chosen. Finally. I give in completely, melting into him, kissing him back, silently asking for more.
His lips break away from mine and trail down my neck. I arch, giving him access, and he nips at my throat, his hands gliding down my sides to pull me even closer. Then he tastes my lips again. He doesn’t pull away when he looks down at me.
His forehead rests against mine, breath uneven, controlled only by force of will.
For a second, neither of us speaks.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“That you want me.” His voice is low, careful, as though he’s testing whether the ground will crack if he puts weight on it.
I don’t hesitate. “I want you.”
Something raw flickers across his face—relief and fear colliding hard enough to steal my breath at the sight. His eyes close for a heartbeat, like he’s bracing himself.
“I’ve been telling myself this was a bad idea,” he admits quietly. “That I was protecting you. That distance was discipline.”
His gaze lifts back to mine, stripped of its usual armor.
“But every time you looked at me,” he continues, “every time you trusted me anyway… it felt like lying to myself.”
I slide my hand up his chest, his warmth bleeding into me through his shirt. He stills and just lets me touch him. That alone is a choice he’s making.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” I admit quietly.
