It wasn’t mocking.
It was precise.
I didn’t deny it.
“Maybe,” I admitted.
Silence stretched between us.
In that silence, my mind raced—not with fear, but with calculation.
If I surrendered completely, I would become reactive. Predictable. Prey.
If I ran, he would track.
But if I stepped into the space between—if I let him feel my intention, my desire, my awareness—then this wasn’t submission.
It was participation.
I didn’t want to overpower him.
I wanted him to want me.
Deeply. Irrevocably.
I wanted him to lean toward me not because he was built to take—but because he chose me over instinct.
And that meant shifting something subtle but significant.
“I think you already want me,” I said, my voice steady despite the pulse in my throat. “In ways you don’t entirely control.”
That landed.
I saw it.
A tightening. A focus sharpening into something more dangerous.
His grip on my wrist didn’t change—but the air did.
“You assume a lot,” he said.
“I observe,” I replied.
I stepped closer, reducing the space until the heat of him pressed against my skin. My other hand rested lightly against his chest—not pushing, not claiming.
Measuring.
Feeling the steady rhythm beneath my palm.
“If I stay in New York,” I continued, softer now, “it’s because I choose to. Not because you cornered me. Not because you outmaneuvered me.”
His gaze darkened. “And you think that distinction changes the outcome?”
“I think it changes everything.”
For a long moment, he simply looked at me.
Not through me.
