“So,” he says softly, “that means you trusted me.”
My breath catches.
“I told you I’d leave if it got too much,” he continues. “And you tested that. I passed.”
I open my mouth to argue, then shut it again. He’s right.
I’m still frowning, though. “You didn’t have to stand up so dramatically.”
He tilts his head. “You didn’t have to be jealous.”
My face heats instantly. “I wasnot—”
He reaches out, fingers brushing my chin, tilting my face up just enough that I have no choice but to look at him.
“Sitara,” he says gently, amusement dancing in his eyes, “you were glaring at her like you were deciding whether to push her into a river.”
I gasp. “I wasnot!”
“You were,” he confirms calmly. “It was impressive.”
I shove his chest lightly. “You’re impossible.”
He catches my wrist before I can pull away, his grip gentle but sure. “And you,” he says, voice dropping, “are very cute when you’re jealous.”
“I am not jealous,” I mutter, even as my heart races.
He hums thoughtfully. “You squeezed my hand because you didn’t like the way she was looking at me.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“And because you didn’t like the way I was talking to her.”
“That’s—”
“And because,” he finishes softly, leaning closer, “you don’t want to share me.”
The words hit something deep and unguarded inside me.
I go still.
He studies my face, his expression shifting—less teasing now, more intent. “Is that so terrible?”
I swallow.
“No,” I admit quietly.
His thumb brushes my cheek, feather-light. “Good.”
“Why were you still talking to her then?” I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
A slow smile curves his lips. “Because I knew you’d squeeze my hand eventually.”
I stare at him. “You did that on purpose.”
“I did,” he says unapologetically.
“That’s evil.”
