“Careful,” I warned softly.“You’re going to make me forget I was ever meant to behave.”
Her smile deepened.
And just like that, restraint became a choice—not a rule.
Her hand rested on my chest.
“When do you ever behave?” she murmured.
The touch was casual on the surface, but I felt the intention beneath it immediately. Not tentative. Not uncertain. She wasn’t asking for permission—she was reminding me who she was and what she wanted.
I held my breath as she lifted her T-shirt, peeling it up and over her head, the fabric catching briefly before she tugged it free and let it drop to the floor. The movement wasn’t hurried. It was unselfconscious in a way that made it impossible to pretend this was accidental.
“When do I want you to behave?” she added, her voice still rough around the edges from illness, softer than usual but no less deliberate.
My gaze followed the line of her without restraint, settling on the turquoise scrap of lace at her hips. The colour was almost cheerful—defiant, even—and absurdly distracting. There was the faintest curve to her stomach now, subtle enough that most people wouldn’t notice it, but I did. I always did.
Ten days.
Ten days of restraint, of redirected hands and calculated distance. Ten days of telling myself that patience mattered more than instinct.
It had felt longer than it should have.
I wet my lips as her scent reached me, familiar and changed all at once. Everything else had shifted—priorities, boundaries, the shape of what we were building—but this tension hadn’t faded. It had tightened, drawn thinner and sharper.
My eyes flicked past her, not because she’d done anything to draw them there, but because habit demanded it.
The camera sat exactly where it always did. Watching without judgement.
She didn’t know it was there.
But the others did, and that mattered.
This wasn’t performance. This wasn’t exhibition. She wasn’t playing to an audience or positioning herself to be seen. She was simply acting on want—on the same reckless, infuriating honesty that had always made her dangerous to us.
The camera wasn’t for her.
It was for us.
I registered the moment carefully—the order of events, the way she’d closed the distance first, the fact that her hand had been on me before I touched her at all. Not because I needed permission, but because I understood the unspoken rules that governed us.
Rowan and Nick would see what they needed to see later.
That I hadn’t taken or pushed.
I stepped closer, close enough that her warmth bled into my space, but I still didn’t touch her. Not yet. Letting the pause stretch was its own kind of control.
“You’re feeling better,” I said quietly, my tone mild, observational.
Her mouth curved slightly, a knowing little smile.
“Much,” she replied.
There was no hesitation in her. No uncertainty. Just that steady, unflinching gaze that told me she’d already decided where this was going.
I let my hand settle at her waist then—light, unmistakable, my thumb brushing just beneath the edge of lace without crossing into anything that couldn’t be defended later.
She didn’t pull away.
