Gideon stood framed in the doorway—dark joggers, hoodie pulled low, hair still damp from whatever workout he'd punished himself with this morning. But it was his eyes that stopped my breath. Something dark and unreadable churned behind them, something that made the air between us feel charged and dangerous.
I set my jaw, forcing steel into my spine. "The store doesn't close for eight hours."
"It does today."
The certainty in his voice sent fury racing through my veins. I laughed—sharp, bitter, furious. "You don't own my business."
He tilted his head slowly, studying me like I'd said something amusing. Something naïve.
"I'm paying for the renovations." His voice stayed calm, reasonable, devastating. "I'm paying for your bills. I'm keeping your doors open. I think I have some say."
My throat closed around words I couldn't form. Because that was true. Every brutal word of it.
And I hated him for it. Hated myself more for needing it.
"Get out."
He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Didn't even blink.
Instead, he crossed to the front windows with that deliberate, predatory ease that made my pulse spike. His hand moved to the sign, flipping it to CLOSED with a soft click that echoed too loud in the sudden silence.
The lock followed. A decisive turn.
Final.
"I'll compensate you for the lost hours." He shrugged like this was nothing, like he hadn't just stolen my autonomy again. "Double, if it makes you feel better."
It didn't.
It never did.
It made me feel owned. Claimed. Erased.
My hands curled into fists against the counter, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave marks I'd notice later.
"Why are you here?"
My voice came out smaller than I wanted. Shakier.
Gideon turned from the door, eyes tracking over me slowly—not hungry, not possessive. Something else. Something that made my stomach twist with dread and anticipation in equal measure.
"Because I want to be."
He didn't grab me. Didn't crowd me against the counter or cage me in with his body like I'd expected—like I'd braced for.
He just… wandered. Long fingers trailing over book spines with a gentleness I'd never seen from him. Not commanding. Not taking. Just touching, like he was searching for something he couldn't name.
I stayed behind the counter, watching, wary as prey tracking a predator that had suddenly stopped hunting. He paused in the classics section—the shelves I'd organized myself, the ones I'd carefully curated because they mattered more than the bestsellers or the seasonal displays. The books that spoke to something deeper.
His hand stopped on an old paperback. Faded cover. Cracked spine. The kind of book that had been read so many times the pages fell open to favorite passages without prompting.
"My mother read this."
The words came quiet. Distant.
I blinked, grip loosening on the edge of the counter.
He'd never mentioned his mother. Not once. Not in any conversation, any argument, any moment of twisted intimacy we'd shared.
