“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I decide whether this works for me.”
He studied me in silence, and for the first time, I sensed the weight of that silence differently. It wasn’t evaluation. It wasn’t calculation.
It was decision.
“You’re not negotiating,” he said finally. “You’re testing.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes.”
His hand moved from my back to my jaw, fingers curving along the line of it as he tilted my face upward.
“A negotiation implies equal leverage,” he continued. “A test implies curiosity.”
“And which is this?”
“You’re curious how far you can go.”
The accuracy of it made my pulse jump.
He leaned in closer, his breath warm against my skin.
“And you want to know how far I’ll let you.”
The words were soft, but they landed deep.
“Yes,” I admitted.
His thumb brushed across my lower lip, the contact slow enough to make my breathing change.
“I don’t let,” he said quietly.
The statement wasn’t sharp or aggressive. It was simply true.
“You engage,” he continued. “You step forward. I respond.”
“And if I stop stepping?”
“Then we stop moving.”
The idea of that—of stillness, of nothing advancing—felt wrong in my body.
I didn’t want stillness.
I wanted momentum.
I wanted to feel the friction of something pushing back.
His mouth lowered to mine then, not in a rush, not in conquest. The kiss was slow and deliberate, deepening as though he were reading my response rather than imposing his own. My fingers tightened in his sweater, and I felt the solid strength beneath it.
He angled me slightly until my back brushed the edge of the counter. The cool surface against my spine contrasted with the heat of his body pressed close.
“You think I don’t chase,” he murmured against my mouth.
