The slit opens more.
I swallow hard, pulse steady on the outside, anything but on the inside. This is restraint. This is what it costs. I told myself I wouldn’t touch her unless she came to me.
And every instinct I have wants to break that rule.
“You comfortable?” I ask quietly, voice even, like I’m not one bad decision away from losing my grip.
“Yes,” she says, soft. Too soft.
The word sinks under my skin.
We stop at a light. Against my better judgment, I glance over. My eyes drop before I can stop them, just a second, just enough to confirm what I already know. Bare thigh. Heat. Invitation she doesn’t even realise she’s offering.
I look away immediately, the light turning green as if to save me from myself.
Patience, I remind myself.
She didn’t run. She chose to get in the truck. She’s here.
That’s enough. For now.
I guide the truck up toward the higher streets, the city stretching below us, and let the silence return, thick, deliberate, charged with everything I’m not allowing myself to do.
Not yet.
If she leans closer, if she bridges the space herself, I don’t know that I’ll stop her.
And that knowledge sits heavy and dangerous in my chest as the truck carries us higher, closer to my place, I’m pretending I’m not standing on the edge of my own sanity.
Chapter Nineteen
Emmy
The truck slows, then turns sharply.
Concrete replaces city lights as we descend, the hum of the engine echoing off smooth stone walls. The air cools, thick with the quiet finality of a private underground garage. When the door rolls shut behind us, the sound reverberates through my chest like punctuation.
This is not a restaurant.
The engine cuts.
Silence settles, heavy, deliberate.
I turn to him, pulse skidding just slightly. “Khai,” I ask, keeping my voice steady even as my fingers curl into the fabric of my dress, “where exactly have you brought me?”
He looks at me then. Really looks.
Not surprised. Not defensive. Just calm, unreadable, like he expected the question and has already decided how much of the truth to give me.
“Home,” he says simply.
The word lands with weight. Not his home, just home.
Before I can respond, he’s already out of the truck, rounding the front with that same unhurried confidence. He opens my door and offers his hand, not pulling, not demanding. Waiting.
I take it.
The garage is immaculate. Polished concrete. Soft, indirect lighting. No other cars. No voices. Just the quiet certainty that this place was designed to keep the rest of the world out.
