My voice comes out low, a whisper that barely escapes my lips.
“If you were anyone else,” I murmur, “I might actually kiss you.”
His breath hitches.
And then?—
Softly, roughly, with a rasp like a stone dragged through velvet?—
“Why not try anyway?”
I snort.
Because it’s easier than falling face-first into whatever the hell that was.
Because it covers the noise my heart is making.
Because the second Ilet itmean something, everything changes.
“You’re not ready for these lips,” I say with a smirk that doesn’t reach my chest.
I turn before he can reply.
Walk to the kitchen like I didn’t just mentally combust at his suggestion.
Behind me, silence.
But not awkward.
Not stiff.
Not distant.
It’s charged.
Heavy with everything we didn’t say.
And something else.
Somethingnew.
Later,while the caf steeps and I try to remember how to function like a human being, I catch him watching me.
Not just glancing.
Watching.
His eyes track the way I stir my mug, the way I tie my robe tighter, the way my hand lingers near my mouth when I think.
And I don’t hate it.
I don’t feel preyed on or cornered or put on display.
I feel seen.
It’s unsettling.
It’s addictive.
