Like I do now, too.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“You going to take the picture?”
“Maybe.”
His mouth curves again, that quiet confidence that used to irritate me and now just pulls something deeper out of me.
“Or maybe you just like looking at me.”
“Don’t push it.”
I snap the photo anyway, then another, the clicks echoing softly around us.
“Only when it matters,” I add, lowering the camera.
His eyes darken slightly at that, something in them shifting as the words land.
I step back toward him, handing the camera over without breaking eye contact.
“You’re still watching me,” I say.
“Yeah.”
“You ever going to stop?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate, certain, and I don’t argue with it.
I step closer, closing the last of the space between us, and this time it feels intentional. Chosen.
“Good,” I murmur.
His hand comes back to my waist, then slides slightly higher, holding me there in a way that feels steady, not restrictive. Grounding, not controlling.
“You happy?” he asks.
The question is quieter than anything else he’s said. More careful.
And it hits deeper than anything else could.
I don’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” I say.
Because it’s true.
Because it’s mine.
Because I chose it.
He studies me for a long second, like he’s making sure I mean it, like he needs to see it in my face as much as hear it in my voice.
Then something shifts in him.
