He’d done this before.
Handled situations like this.
Handled danger.
My gaze dropped to his hands.
To the bruised knuckles.
“You didn’t just get held up,” I said quietly.
His eyes lifted to mine again.
A beat passed.
“No,” he admitted.
I raised an eyebrow. “Want to tell me?”
“No.”
At least he was honest.
I exhaled slowly. “You get into fights often?”
“When someone makes me late.”
My lips twitched.
“Is that supposed to make me feel special?”
He shrugged, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. “Depends how you take it.”
Silence stretched.
Heavy. Charged.
The notebook slipped from my lap onto the coffee table, forgotten.
Because suddenly all I could think about was how close he was.
How easy it would be to lean in.
How much I wanted to.
“You worried I wouldn’t show?” he asked quietly.
My stomach dipped.
I hesitated, then forced honesty past pride.
“Maybe.”
His gaze sharpened.
“Why?”
Because I wanted you to.
