That.
He looked back at her fully then.
And this time, he did not look away.
The space between them felt charged—tight, almost fragile. She could hear the faint rasp of his breathing. Feel the pull of him, like gravity shifting.
“If you remain,” he said carefully, “I will not be able to pretend indifference.”
“I… I do not wish you to.”
There was no boldness in her tone now.
Only truth.
That was when she stepped closer—slowly enough that he could have stopped her.
He did not.
Her hand lifted—not to claim, not to challenge—but to rest lightly against the open edge of his shirt.
He shuddered.
The reaction was immediate. Uncontrolled.
That startled her more than the sight of the birthmark had.
She let her fingers slide—barely—to his throat.
Heat. Pulse. Life.
His eyes closed briefly—not in rejection, but in sensation.
“You do not understand,” he murmured. “No one touches me.”
The admission was rough. Unvarnished.
Something in her chest tightened at the nakedness of it.
Her thumb lingered at the edge of the wine-dark mark—not bold, not claiming—merely resting there, as though reassuring herself he would not vanish the moment she dared to touch him.
She had not meant to come this far.
“I should not,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.
The air between them shifted.
Her pulse beat hard in her throat. She could step back. She knew she could. There was still time for sense, for propriety, for retreat.
But the thought of withdrawing—of leaving him standing there, braced for rejection yet again—felt suddenly unbearable.
Her gaze lifted to his.
“I want to,” she said at last, the words softer now. Not triumphant. Not daring.
Simply true.
His hands came to her waist then—not gripping yet, simply anchoring. As though confirming she was real.
