“Like I’m—” She cuts herself off.
Like you’re mine.
Old instinct surges hard and possessive in my chest. I have to force myself to stare back at her face.
“Old habits,” I say quietly.
Her breath catches.
She turns away from me too quickly and crosses to the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping in. The mattress dips. Sheets rustle.
She turns onto her side with her back facing me. She establishes distance.
Grabbing a pillow and blanket from the closet, I set up on the couch. It creaks under my weight.
She stiffens at the sound.
“You don’t have to martyr yourself,” she mutters.
“It’s not martyrdom.”
“Then what is it?”
Restraint.
Because if I climb in that bed, I’ll want to fulfill all the unspeakable things I want to do to you.
“I’m not going to make you more uncomfortable than you already are,” I say.
Silence settles again.
The space between us feels charged. Not empty. Alive. Every shift of fabric, every breath, every small sound amplified.
Minutes pass.
I know she’s awake. I can feel it. The tension hums through the room like an exposed wire.
“Scott?”
“Yes, little one?”
“You said you came onto this show for me? What do you mean by that?”
“I’ve always cared about you,” I say evenly.
She goes still.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Then answer me.”
I grit my teeth. The urge to explain claws up my throat. I bury it.
“I can’t. Not like this.”
Her voice hardens. “You mean not on your timeline.”
