Really looking.
Not like before.
Like he’s trying to figure something out.
And I know —
I know he sees it.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Jealousy.
Written all over my face the way everything always is.
I’ve never been able to hide anything from him.
He’s always loved that about me.
Right now I hate it.
My chest tightens.
I’m already bracing—expecting the loss of him.
He’s going to pull away.
He always does.
But he doesn’t.
He shifts closer instead.
And something in the way he moves — deliberate, unhurried — tells me he’s not pulling closer despite seeing it.
He’s pulling closer because of it.
Like my wanting him is the thing that draws him in.
Like he needs to know it’s still there.
That I’m still there.
Careful.
Like he’s testing something.
“Ro,” he murmurs. “You know what we have is… different.”
Different.
That word again.
Not better.
Not more.
