I step into him.
His fingers tighten instantly, grip firm like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens it.
“Fuck, Doc,” he hisses against my ear.
My heart is racing. My head is screaming. And somewhere beneath all of it, this dangerous game feels like something I want to play.
The music wraps around us, heavy and slow now, the lights dimmer, the crowd tighter. Wilder’s body moves with mine like it’s instinct. Like he’s done this a thousand times, like he knows exactly where to touch without asking.
His hands slide at my hips, not crude, not rushed. Possessive. Familiar in a way that makes my stomach flip. My fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt at his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breath.
“This isn’t very professional, Doc,” he murmurs, lips close enough that I feel the words more than hear them.
“You started it,” I shoot back, though there’s no real bite behind it.
His laugh is low, rough. “You didn’t stop me.”
He’s right, and that truth burns.
I tilt my head, meeting his gaze. His eyes are glassed over, dark and heavy with alcohol and something else. Something raw. Unfiltered. The mask he wears so easily is cracked wide open, and I see too much of him in that moment.
This is wrong.
I know it.
I feel it.
I open my mouth to say something, to pull away, to be the responsible one.
But he lets go first.
It’s sudden. Sharp. Like I’ve burned him.
His hands drop from my hips, and he takes a step back, dragging a hand through his hair like he needs distance to breathe.
Before I can even process it, he’s staring off behind me.
“Wild! I’ve been looking for you.”
The voice is female. Bright. Familiar in a way that tells me this isn’t new.
The spell shatters.
I step back instinctively, heat flooding my face. Humiliation crashing into anger so fast it makes my head spin. How could Ilet myself forget who he is? What he does? How easily this comes to him?
I should know better.
Idoknow better.
The woman slides up beside him, hand curling into his arm like it belongs there. Wilder’s eyes flick from her back to me.
And there it is.
Sadness.
I don’t know if it’s grief. Or regret. Or alcohol-fueled confusion. Maybe all three.
I don’t care.
