Like he’s been through worse and came out on the other side with all the patience in the galaxy for people like me who shake when they shouldn’t.
I hate that I like it.
I hate that I don’t hatehim.
My arms stay close to my sides, elbows tucked in, like if I make myself smaller I won’t be noticed. But he notices. Of course he does.
“You can breathe, you know,” he murmurs, voice low and rough and way too close to my ear.
I jump a little. Not visibly. I hope. But the words hit my skin like heat, like awareness.
I tilt my head just enough to glance up at him. “Iambreathing.”
“Through your teeth.”
“Maybe I’m on edge.”
“Maybe,” he says. But he doesn’t push.
He shifts—barely—and the space between us tightens. Not closed, not yet, but tighter than it should be.
I should move away.
I don’t.
Because something about the way he holds himself—the tension in his shoulders, the way he watches everything around us without ever looking nervous—tells me this man doesn’t get surprised easily.
Which means he knows I slapped him.
And didn’t retaliate.
Which means helet me.
My stomach twists.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I flinch. Not visibly. Again, Ihope.
I stall by swaying slightly, letting the music move me a little more freely. Just enough to pretend I belong out here. Just enough to feel the heat of him against my shoulder, my arm, not quite brushing but threatening to.
He doesn’t ask again.
He waits.
Which is worse.
“I’m not certain you’ve earned my name yet.”
It’s the first thing that pops in my head. It’s not exactly a lie.
He grins, eyes sparkling. “Challenge accepted.”
His response is too much. I want to run.
I don’t.
Instead, I let the beat move through me. The rhythm isn’t complex, but it’s relentless. Thudding. Pressing. And somehow, in the middle of all this—this noise and heat and the constant threat of panic—I start to find a strange rhythm in my own body.
