I have to keep my distance. Get through these three months. Then disappear and never look back.
“So you’re one of those,” Dex says quietly as he steps closer, his presence filling the space, harder now. Less teasing. More controlled.
“One of what?” My voice comes out hoarse. I swallow.
His scent hits me this close, sage, cedar-wood, leather, smoke. His hair is still damp from the shower, a curl brushing his forehead.
“One of those everything-is-black-or-white people,” he says, lips curving into a knowing smirk. “One of those who believe in rules. In lines that can’t be crossed. That everything is either good or bad, warm or cold, innocent or guilty… worthy or not worthy.”
His hand lifts, and for one terrifying second I think he’s going to cup my cheek.
Instead, he catches a stray strand of hair that slipped from my messy bun and tucks it gently behind my ear. His fingers barely graze my skin, but it feels like a brand.
“Maybe I am,” I say, lifting my chin even as my breath stutters. “And you’re not?”
My eyes betray me, sliding to his mouth. Full. Dangerous.
“I’m not.”
His voice drops as he leans in, his mouth brushing my ear. “There’s blue, purple, green, yellow… there’s beauty in all of it. Freedom too, if you stop trying to control it.”
His words sink into me, slow and devastating as he brings his face in front of mine.
“Things aren’t always black or white,” he murmurs. “I live in the in-between. I take the white when I need it… but I’m not scared to turn to black when life calls for it.”
He steps back.
My thoughts scatter. His words wreak absolute havoc inside my chest.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he adds softly. “Colors have a habit of pulling people in.”
I scoff, even as my pulse betrays me. “I’m not interested in being pulled anywhere.”
“Sure you are.” His gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before lifting again. “I bet you’ve lived your whole life choosing safe.” He tilts his head. “Don’t you ever wonder what dangerous feels like?”
My throat tightens. I hate that he sees too much, that he says it like an invitation instead of a warning.
“Gray is where the truth usually hides,” he says quietly now. Not teasing. Honest. Intimate. “Nothing is ever pure white or pure black, Tinker.”
I force myself to breathe. To remembereverything I swore I’d never get close to again. Bikers. Clubs. Men who smell like temptation and ruin.
“I don’t belong in your gray,” I say, holding his gaze, refusing to give him even an inch.
His eyes soften, just a fraction.
“Maybe.” Then his mouth curves, quiet and unreadable. “But what if you’re already standing in it and you’re just too scared to look around and see it?”
I swallow.
I hate that a part of me wants to know the answer.
Dex takes a step back, turns, and walks back into the kitchen.
I don’t move at first.
My fingers curl slowly into my palms, nails pressing into my skin as something cold creeps up my spine, settling deep in my chest.
I’m trapped.
