That’s all it takes to completely derail my ability to think like a functioning adult human being.
I’m already too close. I know I am. Close enough to feel the warmth rolling off her body, close enough that if she shifts forward even half an inch, my mouth is on hers again and I’m done pretending this is still salvageable.
Remy’s back presses against the kitchen island. My hands brace on either side of her hips because if I touch her right now, I’m not convinced I’ll stop.
Her eyes flick down to my mouth.
Fuck.
I drag in a breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me.
“You should go,” I say again, quieter this time. Rougher. Like the words are fighting their way out of my throat. “Seriously, Remy.”
“Then stop looking at me that way.”
“I don’t know how.”
The confession hangs there between us, raw and humiliating and true.
I’ve spent the last two days trying to get away from her. Literally running from her through the arena like a deranged asshole because every time she looks at me, my chest twists up so tight I can barely think straight. And now she’s here, standing in my kitchen with flushed cheeks and swollen lips and coffee on her breath, looking at me like she’s waiting for something.
Waiting for me.
That’s the part that really gets me.
Nobody waits for me gently.
Nobody gives me space.
My pulse kicks harder when her fingers brush my wrist. The touch is light. Careful. It shouldn’t affect me this much, but my entire body reacts like she put her hand directly around my throat instead.
“Owen,” she says softly, and damn, I could drown in the way she says my name. “Why are you acting like this is a bad thing?”
Because I know myself.
Because I don’t trust what happens when I want something too much.
Because I’ve spent my entire adult life keeping parts of myself locked down tight enough that nobody gets hurt by them.
“You make me crazy,” I admit.
A tiny line forms between her brows. “That sounds miserable.”
I huff out a laugh. “You have no idea.”
She’s still touching my wrist. My stupid brain can’t stop focusing on it. On the warmth of her fingertips against my skin. On how easy it would be to turn my hand and lace our fingers together.
I don’t do it.
Barely.
“What exactly are you afraid is going to happen here?” she asks.
Everything.
I’m afraid of wanting too much. Of pushing too hard. Of turning into every version of myself I’ve spent years trying not to become. But when I look at her, none of those thoughts come out. Instead, my eyes drop to her mouth again.
“I think about you constantly,” I say quietly. “It’s getting hard to act normal around you.”
