I stop.
The space between us hums, tight and electric, like a wire pulled too tight. Her breath ghosts my collarbone. I can feel the warmth of her without touching her at all.
What am I doing?
I straighten abruptly, stepping back like I’ve touched something hot.
She blinks, processing the shift.
Then mercifully she exhales and lets out a soft huff of a laugh.
“Well,” she says lightly, lifting her mug like a shield, “that would’ve made the ERS paperwork very awkward.”
The joke lands. It saves us.
I almost smile.
Almost.
Because my chest still feels tight, and my pulse hasn’t gotten the memo that we’ve decided to pretend nothing just happened.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Probably frowned upon.”
She grins, quick and easy, like she didn’t just feel the same pull I did. Like humor is a switch she can flip to keep herself safe.
Maybe it is.
She turns back to the counter, stirring her tea again even though it doesn’t need it. The spoon clicks once. Then stills.
A moment passes.
But the feeling doesn’t disappear.
I watch her shoulders tense again, just a little, like she’s putting armor back on.
And I realize something that settles heavy and undeniable in my chest.
Stopping myself was the right call.
But now I know exactly how close I came.
And how much I wanted not to stop at all.
Chapter fifteen
Lila
Istep out of the sleek black SUV already knowing how this is supposed to go.
Invited press. Museum donors. Arts reporters with sensible shoes and strong opinions about lighting.
Cameras click softly. No flashes. Polite. Like they’re afraid of startling the art.
I exhale.
No feral energy. No one crouched behind a shrub with a telephoto lens and unresolved childhood issues.
ERS called this asoft debut. A gentle nudge toward a narrative we both need. Lila Hart and Camden Drake: grounded. Unexpected. Tasteful.
