And uncertainty was torture.
Did he want me?
Every signal screamed yes.
The way his gaze followed me when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way his attention sharpened when I mentioned being scared. The way his body leaned toward mine on the sofa, like some invisible thread pulled him closer without permission.
And then?—
Control.
Always control.
Stopping himself inches away from kissing me.
Walking away when I asked him to stay.
Putting distance back between us when things heated up.
Which meant one of two things.
Either he didn’t actually want me. Or he wanted me and something else mattered more.
I stared at the faint outline of the ceiling molding, replaying every interaction like an overanalyzed text thread.
At the café, when I said I wanted him.
His reaction hadn’t been confusion or polite rejection.
It had been hunger. Careful, restrained hunger. Like a man who’d spent a lifetime saying no to things he wanted.
Tonight, on the sofa.
The way his eyes dropped to my mouth.
The way his breath warmed my cheek.
The way his voice had gone rough when he said,dangerous timing.
Notbad idea.
Notnot interested.
Dangerous.
Meaning he felt it, too.
Meaning the danger wasn’t me. It was whatever world he lived in.
Whatever fights left bruises on his hands. Whatever held him up tonight. Whatever made a man like him hesitate.
I sighed, rolling onto my back again.
This was insane.
My sister was dead.
I was unraveling a mystery that suddenly felt darker than I’d expected.
