“No,” he agreed. “It won’t.”
His thumb moved—just slightly—tracing a slow line along my hip. The touch sent a subtle current through me, less sharp than before, but deeper.
I shifted closer without meaning to.
Or maybe I did mean to.
That was the problem now.
The line between instinct and intention had blurred.
“You’re different,” I said quietly.
His brow lifted just a fraction. “So, are you.”
That landed.
I studied his face, searching for something I couldn’t quite name.
“How?” I asked.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“You’re not holding yourself apart from it anymore.”
My pulse ticked up.
“I didn’t realize I was.”
“You were,” he said simply.
I thought about that.
About the way I had approached him from the beginning. Curious, yes. Drawn, undeniably. But always with a layer of distance. A layer of observation. As if I could remain just outside of it—even while stepping in.
“That’s gone now?” I asked.
“Yes.”
The certainty in his voice made something tighten low in my chest.
“And you?” I pressed. “What’s changed for you?”
His hand shifted slightly, sliding from my hip to the small of my back, drawing me closer—not abruptly, not forcefully. Just enough to close the last bit of space between us.
“You stopped testing,” he said.
I felt that.
Because it was true.
At some point, without marking the exact moment, I had stopped trying to measure him. Stopped trying to push, to provoke, to see how he would respond.
I had just … been there.
With him.
“That’s a good thing?” I asked.
