The word dangerous tightens my chest.
For a split second, I’m sixteen again. Dark field. Screaming.
“I was a kid,” I say evenly. “I’m not a kid anymore.”
He studies me, something thoughtful passing through his eyes. “Doing something that gets your blood pumping, gets you excited, that doesn’t stop when you grow up,” he says quietly. “I feel it every time I step onto the mound.”
I swallow. “Is that the only time?”
His gaze drops. Slow. Intentional.
No shame. No apology.
Heat floods my body.
“No,” he says. “It’s definitely not.”
I know I shouldn’t ask. I know exactly how thin the ice is beneath us.
But my heart is racing, my pulse loud in my ears, and I don’t look away.
“What else gets you excited, Wilder?” I ask.
He shifts closer, voice low, unguarded. “Being with a beautiful woman. Touching her. Tasting her. Making her moan my name.”
My breath stutters. My body reacts before my brain can catch up, awareness pooling low and dangerous.
He holds my gaze, unwavering.
“What about you, Doc?” he asks softly. “What gets you excited?”
And suddenly, the room feels very, very small.
I swallow, my pulse loud in my ears, the question hanging between us like a challenge I’m not sure I should accept.
But I answer anyway.
“Being seen,” I say quietly. “Not for what I do. Not for what I’m supposed to be. Just me.”
His expression softens instantly, something raw and reverent flickering across his face.
“And being wanted,” I add before I can stop myself. “By someone who knows they shouldn’t, but does anyway.”
The air thickens.
Neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes quite right.
He leans in just enough that I can feel him. Heat, gravity, restraint pulled tight like a wire. His hand lifts, stopping just short of touching my arm, like he’s testing himself.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, low and sincere. No swagger. No game.
The word lands deep, dangerous in the way it makes my chest ache.
I stand abruptly, needing distance before I do something I won’t be able to undo. “Wilder,” I say softly, steadying myself, “you need to go.”
His jaw tightens. Not angry, just controlled. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I know.”
He rises too, the space between us suddenly charged with everything we’re not doing. He reaches for his jacket, then pauses.
