“No,” she says firmly. “It’s not.”
Silence stretches.
The air between us shifts again — no longer tension sparking. She reaches up, fingers brushing the scar at my collarbone. The one the fire left.
Her touch isn’t hesitant.
It’s curious.
“You don’t scare me,” she says quietly.
“You should be scared of me.”
She smirks. “Why?”
“Because when I finally decide I want something, I don’t do it halfway.”
Her breath catches slightly.
“I noticed.”
I slide my hand to the small of her back, pulling her flush against me.
“Say it,” I murmur.
“Say what?”
“That you want me too.”
Her hands press against my chest, not pushing me away. Just feeling.
“You know I do.”
“I want to hear it.”
She exhales slowly. “I want you.”
The words are soft but certain.
“How much?” I press.
Her gaze flickers, heat rising in her cheeks.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”
“No.”
Her hands slide up over my shoulders. “I want you enough that leaving felt like tearing something out of me.”
That does it.
I lower my forehead to hers.
“I don’t want you because you healed me,” I say quietly. “You stood there. You let me be angry. Let me be broken. Let me be quiet.”
Her fingers trace the back of my neck.
“I don’t need you perfect.”
