I lifted my hands to his shoulders and pushed slightly, shifting our position so that he felt the counter at his back instead of me.
He moved with the adjustment easily, smoothly, and I saw it then—the faint glint in his eyes.
He let me do it.
Not because he couldn’t stop me.
Because he wanted to see what I’d do next.
I stepped closer, pressing into him, and felt the steady strength of his body yield just enough to accommodate the shift.
“You see?” I said softly.
He didn’t answer.
His hands slid to my hips, fingers tightening slightly as he pulled me closer again, reversing the subtle change I’d made.
The counter pressed against my back once more.
The air left my lungs in a quiet rush.
“You’re not flipping anything,” he said.
The words weren’t dismissive.
They were calm.
“You’re stepping deeper.”
The truth of it settled into my bones.
I wasn’t overpowering him. I wasn’t manipulating him.
I was choosing proximity.
Choosing the tension. Choosing to remain in range.
And the most destabilizing part was that he knew it.
He knew I wasn’t prey.
But I also wasn’t in control.
I was something far more dangerous.
Willing.
16
Willing.
The word stayed in my chest long after it formed, lingering the way heat lingers in your skin after you’ve stepped too close to a fire. I had meant it as a conclusion—clean, decisive, controlled.
It didn’t feel clean.
It felt like the beginning of something that refused to be contained.
Cassian’s hands were still on my hips, the counter firm against my spine, the quiet of my aunt’s kitchen pressing in around us like the house itself had been holding its breath.
