His voice is quieter now. Not cold.Soft.Which makes it worse.
Because suddenly I feel the temperature in the room change. Not literally, but the way the air feels heavier, closer, like the space between us is contracting. He’s not touching me. Not even close.
But my skin isburning.
We’re both staring now.
Not moving.
The silence has teeth, but they don’t bite. They hover just above the skin. Tension wraps around my ribs like a second skeleton. My pulse has gone frantic in my throat, loud and high and wild.
And he doesn’t move.
That’s what makes it unbearable.
He stays so still. Not out of disinterest. But out of choice.Restraint.
His jaw flexes once. The light catches on the curve of his mouth. There’s something unreadable simmering in his expression, like a thousand things just collided behind his eyes and not one of them made it to his tongue.
I should look away.
But I don’t.
His gaze drops—for one breath—to my mouth.
Just once.
And then back up.
I feel the moment stretch between us like pulled wire, thin and sharp and vibrating. My heart is screaming. My fingers twitch against the mattress.
If he leans forward, even slightly—I’ll meet him.
I know it. Ifeelit.
And suddenly, he stands.
Just like that, the pressure breaks.
He rises with practiced precision, every motion crisp, controlled, devastatingly calm.
The absence of him beside me is a slap.
I can’t even speak for a second. My mouth is dry. My whole body feels like it was about to jump off something and missedthe cue. I scramble to pull my thoughts back into line, but they’re scattered across the room, smoldering.
“I’ve completed my duty,” he says.
I blink at him. “Seriously?”
“Station recalibration has concluded.”
“You’re just—leaving?”
He meets my gaze. “Yes.”
“You—”
The words die in my throat. What am I going to say?You almost kissed me?I almost kissed you?Please don’t go?
