He wasn’t careless. He wasn’t insecure. He didn’t posture.
But he was still a man who moved with certainty. And certainty can be studied.
“You’re watching me,” I said, stepping closer.
His gaze didn’t waver. “Yes.”
“You adjust when I push.”
“I adapt,” he corrected.
“And you don’t chase,” I continued. “You don’t negotiate. You don’t … ask.”
“No.”
“But you’re paying attention,” I said softly.
That part mattered.
He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t dismiss the observation.
So, I closed the distance.
Not all of it.
Just enough.
I reached for him—not impulsively, not tentatively—but with the same intention I used when stepping onto a stage before hundreds of people. I took hold of the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric just above his sternum.
His body went completely still.
Waiting.
The stillness was powerful—but it wasn’t control.
It was choice.
And that difference sent a ripple of heat through me.
I tilted my chin up, holding his eyes. “You’re interested,” I said quietly.
A flicker of something dark moved through his expression.
“Careful,” he murmured.
His hand closed around my wrist—not rough, not gentle. Firm enough to remind me of the scale of him. The strength beneath restraint.
But he didn’t move me.
He didn’t pull me closer. He didn’t push me away. He held.
And that restraint—that deliberate refusal to dominate the moment—did more to ignite me than force ever could.
“I’m not playing,” I said.
His thumb brushed the inside of my wrist in a slow, controlled motion that made my breath shift.
“You’re trying to flip the dynamic,” he said.
