And him.
God, him.
It’s not just the way he looks, though that alone could undo me if I let it, but the way he takes care of me, the way he guides me without making it feel like I’m being led, the way he looks at me as if I’m the most important thing in the room, no matter where we are.
This is Dex. Strong, impulsive, dangerous, and still somehow soft, protective, steady in a way that makes everything around him feel less uncertain.
The more I watch him, the more something inside me loosens, unravels.
Because it’s not supposed to be like this.
I was careful.
I promised myself I would be.
And yet somewhere between the music and the way his hand fits so easily in mine, between the quiet way he watches me like I’m something worth knowing and the way he pulls me close likeletting go isn’t even an option, I’ve already crossed a line I swore I never would.
I don’t even remember when it happened.
When the walls I built so carefully stopped feeling like protection and started feeling like distance.
How did it happen?
How did I go from guarding my heart like it was the last thing I owned, to placing it, unprotected, unarmed, into the hands of this infuriating, wonderful man?
I’ve no clue. All I know is I never want to go back to a life without him.
And maybe that should terrify me.
But it doesn’t.
Standing here, wrapped up in him, in this moment that feels too full and too real to be anything but beautiful, the only thing I know for certain is that I don’t want to remember what my life felt like before him.
???
We get home at midnight, and the second the door shuts behind us, everything shifts, all the space we’ve been keeping between us for months collapsing at once.
Dex doesn’t say anything at first. He turns on the music, something slow and aching filling the apartment, and helps me out of my jacket before shrugging off his own. His hands linger a second too long on my shoulders, fingers pressing in slightly before he lets go.
But his eyes stay.
Slow. Heavy. Unapologetic.
He’s done pretending he doesn’t look at me like that.
“Tinker?”
My throat tightens. “Yeah?”
He holds out his hand, but there’s nothing casual about it. His jaw is set, a muscle ticking, his chest rising a little too fast. “Dance with me one more time?”
I place my hand in his, my pulse already betraying me. “I’ll give you all the dances you want, Pan.”
That lands somewhere deep. I see it in the way his fingers tighten around mine before he pulls me in.
His hands settle at my waist, no hesitation this time, no space left between us as he draws me flush against him, firm, grounding, as if he needs to be sure I’m real. My breath stutters the second our bodies meet, heat sparking sharp and immediate, the kind that’s been building for too long to be ignored now.
I rest my head against his chest, but it’s not enough. I need to see him. I tilt my face up, and his eyes… God.
