Her lips parted like she wanted to say something—some half-ass excuse or protest.
But she didn’t.
And that silence?
That was surrender in slow motion.
I didn’t move. Didn’t rush her.
Because I already knew—she was still mine.
And soon?
She’d admit it out loud.
I waited for a response as I stalked to the fridge like I owned the fucking air between us. Every step cut through the tension, heavy and sharp, like the floorboards knew better than to creak.
The silence thickened, suffocating.
I yanked the fridge open, grabbed a bottle of water, and let the cold bite into my fingers like it might ground me.
It didn’t.
She watched me. Wide-eyed. Silent. Caged.
I cracked the cap, took a long pull, and finally let my voice cut through the quiet. “You look better in that shirt than I ever did.”
No smile. No flirt. Just fact.
Her brow tightened. Lips pressed like she wanted to argue—like she thought she still had something to prove.
She didn’t.
I dropped the bottle onto the counter. Hard. The thud echoed like a warning shot.
Then she opened her mouth. “What about the rumors?”
Voice shaky. Not because she was scared of me, but because she already knew the answer.
I waved her off like the noise wasn’t worth my time. “Let them talk.” Flat. Cold. Certain. “They already think you’re mine.”
She flinched like the truth had claws.
I stepped in closer, not rushed—deliberate.
Until there was no room between us. Until her breath hitched and I could see her pulse jump in her throat.
“So let’s make it official.”
The words dropped like a fucking hammer.
Her eyes locked on mine. Searching—for a way out, for mercy, for anything that might let her pretend this was still a choice.
There wasn’t.
She could feel it. I saw it in the way her hands curled at her sides, like she didn’t know if she wanted to slap me or hold on.
That fear? That fire? That was mine too.
