He glances up, the flick of his gaze sharp enough to make me wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
“One thing,” I add quickly, before he can retreat behind that wall of silence. “No games. No dodging. Just something real.”
For a long beat, he studies me without moving, then sets his chopsticks down and leans back. His shoulders ease into the chair as if he’s settling into a decision.
“I hate eating alone.”
It’s not what I expected. It’s a bare truth tossed between us. He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. Because for a moment, that’s enough. It lingers in the space between us, rough and unpolished. Honest.
I nod once, tamping down the urge to pry, and go back to my food.
When I speak again, my tone is lighter, but my chest is stilltight. “Well. Glad I could be here to help with your deep emotional crisis.”
“Don’t get cocky,” he says, mouth curving. “The night’s young.”
“Still holding out hope you’ll win me over?” I ask, tilting my head, trying for lightness.
“I already did.”
My chopsticks are still midair. “You really believe that?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re here, eating my food, drinking my wine. You could’ve fought harder. You didn’t. That tells me everything I need to know.”
The way he says it isn’t smug—it’s intimate, he’s not gloating butclaiming. As if my being here isn’t just circumstance, but inevitability. Like he knew all along I’d end up in this seat, next to him.
My pulse betrays me, thrumming under my skin, and I look down just to break the pull of his stare.
“You’re different,” I say, studying him over the rim of my glass. “I remember a night when you couldn’t stop talking.”
He lifts his wine, doesn’t drink. “You’re not wrong.”
“You teased, you asked questions, you?—”
“And you were softer,” he cuts in, eyes steady on mine. “Less shielded. Less bite.”
The words graze sharper than I expect, but I force a shrug. “Life happens.”
“It does.” His agreement is quiet, too quiet, like he’s letting me sit with the weight of it.
The silence stretches. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t fidget, just studies me like he’s stripping layers with his eyes, daring me to stay still under the scrutiny.
“You’ve got this…thing now,” I say finally, swirling my wine as if it can shield me. “This stillness. The control. That’s new.”
“It’s earned,” he answers, and there’s no apology in it. Only conviction.
I laugh—short, sharp, betraying more than I want. “And here I thought you were just born insufferable.”
He moves then. My chair shifts under his hand as he turns me to face him fully. He doesn’t crowd me, but his presence is overwhelming, filling the air between us.
His fingers slide into my hair, curling at the nape as his palm frames my cheek. I can’t stop the shiver that follows.
“Does it feel different when I touch you?” he asks, eyes dark.
I don’t answer. My pulse stutters and gives me away.
He leans closer—not enough to touch, but enough to remind me of every inch I once knew for a night. The stillness I accused him of is gone. What coils between us now isn’t calm at all. It’s heat, restrained only by the thinnest thread of control.
And suddenly, I’m back in that hotel room—back on the edge of something that gutted me and branded me all at once.
