“Notice what?”
“The way you watch me.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “You’re imagining things.”
“I don’t imagine much.” His gaze drops to my mouth for half a second too long. “And I don’t miss much either.”
I push off the counter, trying to create distance. He blocks it effortlessly.
One step.
That’s all it takes.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he says.
“I’m tired.”
“Liar.”
I inhale slowly. “You don’t get to call me that.”
“I do when I’m right.”
His voice is low. Controlled. But underneath it is something strained.
“Maybe I’m just thinking,” I counter.
“About?”
“You.”
Silence detonates. His jaw tightens.
“That’s not a safe topic.”
“I didn’t realize we were playing safe.”
“We are.”
His hand lifts slightly—almost touching my waist—then stops midair.
I feel the hesitation like a physical thing.
“Why?” I ask softly.
“Because this isn’t just about you and me.”
“I know.”
“You’re twenty-four.”
“And?”
“And I’m thirty-seven.”
“We’ve already done this math.”
