I take a deep breath to center myself, then I head downstairs, cane tapping softly against the floor. “Jason?” I call into the living room.
No answer.
But when I reach the front door again, drawn by something fluttery and electric in my ribs, I hear it a wicker scrape, the whisper of woven reeds shifting against wood. A basket being moved.
My hand stills on the doorknob. The sound is gentle, careful, almost… worshipful. Like someone trying not to disturb the moment. Or me.
My pulse lifts, feather-light and breathless.
Then his voice, caught between awe and something deeper.
“You look…”
A breath.
“…stunning.”
Heat surges through me so fiercely I’m surprised my hair doesn’t ignite. “You smell good too,” I mumble.
He laughs, and the vibration of it seems to settle in my ribs.
“Shall we go?” He steps closer, and I feel his presence fill the space in front of me. When he raises his hand, the air shifts. He waits, always waits, until I reach out first.
I slide my fingers into his. His hand is warm and large, with just the right amount of calluses that I appreciated last night.
“Ready?” he asks softly.
I open my mouth to say yes. But moving forward means stepping closer to him.
And when I do, when my foot brushes his shoe, when my balance tilts infinitesimally toward him, my free hand lands against his chest.
Everything stops.
His chest is solid heat beneath my palm, rising and falling like he’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe properly too. His grip tightens around my fingers.
“Sorry,” I whisper, my breath catching. “I didn’t mean?—”
“You can touch me whenever you want,” he says, voice darkening just a little. “I won’t mind.”
My stomach flips so violently, I’m surprised it doesn’t backflip out of my body.
His thumb strokes once across the back of my hand, slow and deliberate, and the sound that escapes me is something between a sigh and a quiet, startled oh.
His breath brushes my cheek. Close. Too close. Not close enough.
“I’m glad you said yes tonight,” he murmurs.
“I—me too,” I whisper, helpless.
My cane hand trembles, and I’m sure he notices, because he notices everything. I hear him step even closer, and the heat near my waist tells me his hand is close by like he’s asking permission.
My pulse stutters, and I nod.
His fingers settle lightly on the curve of my waist, and the sensation nearly knocks me off my feet. I lean in, just a fraction, and feel him exhale sharply against my temple.
“Violet,” he says, voice low and strained.
“Yes?” My voice is embarrassingly soft.
