At my aunt’s, I’d been aware of him in contrast to something familiar. Something grounding.
Here, there was no contrast.
Just him.
Just us.
“You’re thinking again,” he said.
A breath left me. “I always am.”
His gaze held mine. “Not like this.”
I stepped further into the room, drawn by something I didn’t fully understand and didn’t want to analyze too closely.
“How is this different?” I asked.
He didn’t move.
“You’re not trying to get ahead of it.”
My pulse stuttered.
“That’s new.”
It was.
And the realization of it settled low in my body, something quieter than panic, sharper than curiosity.
“I don’t feel like I need to,” I said slowly.
His eyes darkened slightly.
“No,” he agreed. “You don’t.”
The air shifted.
I felt it in the space between us, the way something tightened, sharpened, focused.
I stepped closer.
This time, I didn’t frame it as strategy. Didn’t tell myself I was testing anything, influencing anything, managing anything.
I just moved.
And he let me.
Not passively.
Not distantly.
Present.
That same controlled stillness, but now it felt … different. Less like observation. More like anticipation.
My hand lifted, settling against his chest.
His heart was steady beneath my palm.
