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“That hurts,” I say.
“Not really.”
“Liar.”
A beat.
“…a little.”
There it is.
Honesty.
We’re making progress.
My hands move carefully—efficient, practiced.
But I’m aware of everything.
The heat of him.
The way he’s watching me.
The way the air between us feels—
Different.
Again.
Dangerous.
Again.
“You’re staring,” I mutter.
“You’re bossy.”
“Someone has to be.”
“I was doing fine.”
“You were bleeding out.”
“Details.”
I shake my head.
“…you’re impossible.”
“Yeah.”
Soft.
Quiet.
Different.
That tone again.
