I was backed against the window. Nowhere to go even if I wanted to.
I could step to the side. Slip past him. Break the moment and return to the vegetables and pretend this conversation had never happened.
I didn’t move.
He stopped. Inches away. So close I could see the pulse in his throat, quick and steady. So close I could count the fine scars on his hands, silver lines against his skin.
He raised one of those hands. Slow. Deliberate. Giving me time to pull back, to turn away, to stop this before it started.
I didn’t.
His fingertips touched my jaw.
The contact was light. Barely there. A whisper of warmth tracing the line of my jaw, following the curve from my ear to my chin.
My whole body went taut. Every nerve ending focused on that single point of contact, on the path his fingers traced, on the rough texture of his calluses against my skin.
He moved his hand. Cupped my face properly. His palm warm against my cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth.
I leaned into him. Couldn’t help it. My body moving before my mind gave permission, pressing my face into his hand like I was starving for contact.
His breath caught. I heard it, felt it, the slight stutter in the rhythm of his breathing. His thumb pressed harder against the corner of my mouth. So close to my lips. So close.
“Anhara.”
My name in his voice, rough and low. Like a question. Like a prayer. Like he was asking permission for something he couldn’t put into words.
I looked up. Found his eyes. Red and burning and focused on me with an intensity that made my stomach clench.
His thumb traced my lower lip. Light. Questioning.
I parted my lips. Let him feel the warmth of my breath against his skin. Let him see the answer I couldn’t say out loud.
He leaned closer. His forehead almost touching mine. His breath warm on my face.
“Anhara.”
The proximity alarm screamed.
The sound ripped through the kitchen like a physical blow. High and urgent and endless, cutting through everything, shattering the moment into fragments I could never piece back together.
We jerked apart.
His hand fell from my face. Cold rushed in where his warmth had been. The absence hit harder than any blade, like something had been torn away before it had a chance to grow.
The alarm kept wailing. Red light pulsed from the panel by the door. Turnip was on his feet, fur standing on end, massive body coiled and ready.
“They’re early,” Kallum said.
His voice was flat. Controlled. The walls slamming back into place so fast I almost got whiplash watching it happen. One second he’d been open, vulnerable, his thumb tracing my lip. The next he was the ghost again, all sharp edges and lethal focus.
He was out the door before I could respond. Moving fast, disappearing into the afternoon light like he’d never been solid at all.
I stood by the window. My hand rose without my permission, pressing against my cheek where his palm had been.
Still warm. Still tingling. The ghost of his touch lingering on my skin.
The alarm screamed on.
