My throat tightens.
He steps closer, not touching me, but close enough that the heat of him presses against every inch of my awareness.
“You think I’m like that?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t playful.
It’s loaded.
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are darker than usual, pupils blown wide, jaw tight like he’s holding something back with brute force.
“Sometimes,” I say softly.
A muscle jumps in his cheek.
He moves then—slow, deliberate—closing the last inch between us. His hand comes up, fingers brushing my chin. A bead of water slides down my cheek from my hairline and he catches it with his thumb, wiping it away like it belongs to him.
My breath stutters.
The room shrinks.
He dips his head slightly, eyes dropping to my mouth.
Time fractures.
He leans in.
Slow.
Controlled.
Deliberate.
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it almost hurts. Every inch of me screams for him to finish the distance. To press his mouth to mine. To stop pretending we don’t feel this.
His lips hover a breath away.
I can feel his exhale.
Warm.
Shaky.
He growls—low and guttural—like it costs him something enormous to hold back.
Then he drops his forehead to mine instead.
The contact is devastating.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he whispers.
“Like what?” My voice barely exists.
“Like you’re daring me.”
I don’t deny it.
Because I am.
