Instead, I asked, “Why did you answer my text? That first day, when I messaged the wrong number. You could have ignored it.”
He seemed surprised by the question. “I…” He paused, searching for words. “I was curious. Your message was… unlike anything I’d received before.”
“Because of all the emojis?” I smiled, remembering my overly enthusiastic text.
“Because of the life in it,” he corrected. “The unguarded enthusiasm. It was… refreshing.”
“Even with the ‘bullheaded boss’ comment?” I winced at the memory.
A small smile curved his mouth. “That part gave me pause.”
“I’m still mortified about that,” I admitted.
“Don’t be,” he said. “It led to this.”
This. Such a simple word for whatever was developing between us—this connection, this understanding, this moment on my sofa with the rest of the world fading away.
The conversation lapsed again, but the silence felt different now—heavier, more charged. My apartment seemed to shrink around us, the distance between us on the sofa both too great and not nearly enough. I found myself cataloging details about him: the perfect symmetry of his horns curving from his forehead, the way the fur at his neck was slightly thicker, like a mane, the surprising elegance of his large hands as they cradled the delicate teacup.
Rion caught me watching him and held my gaze. Something passed between us, electric and undeniable. He set his cup down with deliberate care, the movement drawing my attention to the powerful muscles of his forearms.
“Clara,” he said, my name rumbling from deep in his chest.
“Yes?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but it emerged breathier than I’d intended.
He hesitated, seeming to wage some internal battle. His eyes dropped to my lips, then back to my eyes, the longing in them unmistakable but tempered with uncertainty.
“I should go,” he said, though he made no move to rise.
“Is that what you want?” I asked, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.
He studied me, his expression a complex mixture of desire and restraint. “What I want…” he began, then stopped, shaking his head slightly. “What I want isn’t always wise.”
“Tell me anyway,” I urged softly.
His gaze intensified, pinning me in place. “I want things I haven’t allowed myself to want in a very long time.”
The raw honesty in his voice sent a shiver through me. I understood then that Rion wasn’t just battling desire—he was fighting against years of isolation, of learned caution, of protecting himself from the rejection he’d come to expect.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I said, needing him to know.
“Perhaps you should be,” he replied, though there was no threat in his tone—only a weary resignation.
“I’m afraid of a lot of things,” I admitted. “Heights. Public speaking. The inevitable heat death of the universe. But not you, Rion. Never you.”
Something shifted in his expression at my words—a softening, a surrender. He lifted one large hand, hesitated, then slowly, carefully reached towards me. He paused just before touching my face, his eyes asking a silent question.
In answer, I closed the distance, leaning my cheek into his palm. His skin was warm, the fur on the back of his hand soft against my skin. I heard his sharp intake of breath at the contact, felt the slight tremor in his fingers.
“Clara,” he said again, my name like a prayer on his lips.
The tension between us had reached a breaking point. I couldn’t bear it anymore—this exquisite, torturous almost-something. I needed more. Summoning every ounce of courage I possessed, I shifted closer, until our knees touched. His eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t pull away.
“Rion,” I whispered, my hand finding its way to his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. “I think about you all the time. When you’re not with me, I’m wondering what you’re doing, what you’re thinking. And when you are with me…”
I trailed off, my throat tight with emotion.
“When I’m with you?” he prompted, his voice a low rumble that I felt as much as heard.
