She laughs once, shaky. “I can’t—” Her voice falters. “I just can’t do it all the time.”
I push off the door slowly. No rush. No sudden moves.
She notices me move. Her gaze flicks to me, guarded out of habit, not fear.
I take a step closer. Then another.
She doesn’t back away.
Up close, I can see the fine tremor in her hands. The way she’s holding herself together through sheer force of will. I’ve worn that same armor. Different battles. Same weight.
“You don’t have to,” I say quietly.
Her breath stutters.
“Not with me.”
The words feel dangerous the second they leave my mouth. Not because they’re untrue.
Because they are.
She looks up at me then. Like she’s checking for the catch. The angle. The hidden camera.
There isn’t one.
The space between us hums. Tight. Electric. Fragile.
I lift my hand before I can talk myself out of it.
Slow. Careful. An offering, not a claim.
I stop right in front of her.
Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath. Close enough that stepping away would feel like a choice, not an accident.
She looks up at me, eyes still bright, still fierce, but softened now by something that looks a lot like hope and scares me more than the press ever has.
Her lips part. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t joke it away.
I lift my hand.
I give her time to stop me.
She doesn’t.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, my knuckles barely grazing her temple. The touch is so light it almost doesn’t count. Almost.
She stills.
Her eyes flutter closed for half a second, and the effect on me is immediate and brutal. My heart slams into my ribs like it wants out.
I’ve kissed women before. Without thinking. Without reverence.
This feels different. Slower. Like handling something breakable that somehow trusts me not to drop it.
“I’ve never been good at pretending,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “So I need to ask.”
Her eyes open again. Dark. Steady. Locked on mine.
