I stare out the window. The glass is cold. So is the air between us.
Konstantin’s on his phone, fingers gliding across the screen with military efficiency.
I shift in my seat, lean back against the leather, and tell myself not to look at him.
I fail.
Out of the corner of my eye, I steal a glance—quick, like maybe I’m checking the time or the streetlights.
His side profile hits hard—sandy blonde hair clipped short, jaw sharp under a dark beard, tattoos peeking above his collar, all 6’4” of him too damn handsome for a man so alone. His lashes are dark, unfairly so, and he has that stillness—like he could strangle someone mid-sentence and not spill a drop of blood on his cuff.
But that’s not what gets me.
What gets me is howlonelyhe looks. Detached. Unreachable. Like he’s already halfway gone, even when he’s sitting right there.
I sigh.
A fucking lonely, handsome man.
Which—just great—only makes women want him more. Apparently, emotional isolation is catnip.
And the worst part? I get it. I see it now. And I hate that I want to reach for it.
Like some wounded little girl who thinks if she touches it, she won’t feel so alone herself.
He shifts slightly. Tilts his head.
Our eyes lock in the tinted reflection.
I don’t know if he caught me staring or if he was doing the same, but for one long, stupid second, neither of us looks away.
His gaze doesn’t soften. Mine probably does.
Then my stomach twists—not because of him, but because I remember. The nausea. The cramps. The quiet terror curled beneath my ribs.
I look away first.
Not because I’m embarrassed. But because I’mangrythat part of me wanted something from him in that moment. Comfort. Connection. A flicker of something real.
Not that I’m expecting tenderness. I’m not that delusional. But a text or two less right now might’ve been nice. Maybe a sideways look. Anything to suggest I didn’t hallucinate that kiss. That moment. That flicker of something I mistook for warmth.
But no.
He’s ice. And I’m… apparentlystupid.
Stupid for kissing him.
Stupid forwantinghim to kiss me back.
And even more stupid for how hedid.
Because it wasn’t just a kiss. Not that kind. He kissed me like I mattered. Like he needed it. Like something inside him cracked open and poured into me—hot and aching and real.
That wasn’t just lust. That wasn’t just heat.
It felt like more.
And maybe that’s the worst part.
