His hands gripped my upper arms.
Not hard enough to bruise.
But firm.
Controlled.
He turned us sharply and pressed my back against the cold concrete wall.
The impact made a low thud sound.
I didn’t fight. I didn’t flinch.
I just lifted my chin and stared directly into his eyes.
Stormy. Restless. Conflicted.
“Trying to hurt me again?” I asked flatly.
His grip tightened slightly — not in anger, but instinct.
“No...”
His voice dropped lower.
He shifted one hand from my arm.
His fingers moved to my chin.
He tilted my face upward — forcing my gaze to remain locked on his.
My heart rate didn’t spike.
It didn’t accelerate.
It simply registered the proximity.
Then —
He kissed me.
Soft at first. Tentative.
Almost cautious — like he was testing whether I would pull away.
I didn’t.
I didn’t push him.
I didn’t respond either.
I allowed it.
His lips were warm.
They tasted faintly of coffee and something metallic — the lingering trace of blood from old wounds or battle.
My body reacted before my mind could fully shut it down.
