“The land,” I clarified. “You.”
His mouth curved slightly—not amusement. Recognition.
“You didn’t run,” he said.
“No.”
“You didn’t wait by the house.”
“No.”
“You followed the path.”
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, not touching, his presence enveloping without pressure. “That’s how I knew you’d be ready.”
“For what?” I asked, though something in me already knew.
“For choosing,” he said. “And for knowing what that choice costs.”
The honesty of it settled heavy and real between us. No fantasy gloss. No romantic dilution.
I nodded. “I know.”
“Say it,” he murmured.
“I know this changes me.”
“And?” His voice dropped.
“And I’m not asking you to soften it.”
That did something to him.
I saw it in the way his breath shifted, just once, like restraint had teeth. His hand came up slowly and rested at my waist, firm and warm, anchoring me.
“You walked my land,” he said quietly. “You didn’t flinch.”
“I wasn’t afraid,” I admitted.
His thumb pressed slightly into my side, a grounding pressure. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”
The word sent a shiver through me.
Recognition.
He leaned in then, forehead resting briefly against mine, a gesture so intimate it stole my breath more than any rough touch could have.
“You were desperate last night,” he said softly.
“Yes.”
“And you waited.”
“Yes.”
His other hand joined the first, holding me with unmistakable ownership now, not to restrain, but to claim. “That matters.”
