“I think it could be.”
He studies me like I’m a risk assessment.
“You don’t get to rescue me,” he says quietly.
“I’m not trying to.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Standing here.”
The tension shifts.
His hand slides higher along my back.
“You should go to bed,” he says, but he doesn’t let go.
“You should stop hiding behind your badge.”
His mouth twitches slightly. “You think I’m hiding?”
“I think you’re bracing.”
He exhales. “And what if I am?”
“Then stop.”
His forehead lowers to mine. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy,” I whisper. “It’s brave.”
His breath brushes my lips. “You think I’m brave?”
“I think you’re terrified.”
A low, humorless laugh escapes him. “Of what?”
“Of being happy.”
That hits. His grip shifts, pulling me flush against him now.
“You think I don’t want that?” he asks quietly.
“I think you don’t think you deserve it.”
His body stills. The silence between us is thick and electric.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits.
“Do what?”
“Want something without assuming it’ll burn.”
I reach up, touch his jaw gently. “Then start small.”
His hand slides into my hair. “That’s not how I work.”
The air feels charged. Dangerous. His thumb tilts my chin. His breath catches. For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then he exhales like something heavy finally set down.
