I swallow, the truth stuck in my throat. “Yeah,” I manage. “Just… catching up to myself.”
I feel him noticing me, the awareness thick between us, like we’re attached by an invisible cord.
“Good,” he murmurs. “You looked a little breathless.”
If only he knew.
“Mm-hm,” I manage, leaning against the counter.
He moves closer.
I don’t see it but damn, I feel it. The shift of air. The soft scrape of his shoe against the floor. The quiet exhale he releases right before his fingers find mine.
His thumb brushes over my knuckles.
It’s such a small touch, but it’s like a spark from an exposed wire. His skin is warm, and it elicits a confidence in me that I haven’t felt around another person in so long. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t treat me like I’m delicate or unpredictable.
He touches me like he knows exactly where I am. Where he is.
My breath stutters, caught somewhere between a gasp and a prayer. The warmth of him travels up my arm, spreading across my chest, melting places I thought were frozen for good. For a moment, I’m suspended. No fear, no noise except the rhythmicthud of my own heart and the soft, unhurried stroke of his thumb. Like he’s memorizing me.
“Violet…” he murmurs, and somehow my name in his voice is another touch altogether.
“Yes.”
“I think we should eat. I don’t want your efforts to go to waste.”
Something in what he says makes me wonder why it would go to waste, but then he pulls out the barstool at the kitchen counter.
“M’lady.” His voice is teasing but there’s something more under the words. Restraint?
“Thank you, kind sir.”
Dinner is perfect. Warm, seasoned, rich, but I barely taste it. All I can think of is the way he laughs under his breath, and the way his knee keeps brushing mine under the table, sending sparks through me each time. The tension grows by the minute, thick enough to breathe it in.
After dessert, a sweet, zesty, and citrusy cake he brought, he sets his fork down. The sound is quiet but final. I’m loading the dishwasher, when suddenly he’s right behind me. Not touching, just radiating heat.
“Violet,” he says, voice low.
My heart jumps, an actual physical jolt, sharp enough to steal a breath. “Yes?”
He inhales slowly, like he’s steadying himself, like saying the next words costs him something… or risks something.
“You look…” He pauses, then moves even closer. “Yousmellincredible tonight.”
Heat floods my cheeks so fast I swear he must feel it through the air between us. “Jason…”
His name slips out softer than I meant it to, too revealing, giving away every nervous flutter in my chest.
He doesn’t move away.
If anything, he leans in again, enough that I feel that heat travel the last inch between us. Enough that I hear the quiet catch in his breath when my own brushes his collarbone.
For a moment, everything feels suspended—the kitchen, the food, the night outside, even my doubts.
All that remains is the scent of cedar and spice, the touch of his fingers wrapped around mine, and the low, steady hum of something dangerous and gentle blooming between us.
I swallow hard, my lips parting. “You’re very close.”
