That was it.
I stared.
Another message appeared.
Don’t be late.
No answer to the question. No extra words. No flirtation. No softness. Nothing I could point to and say there, that’s why I reacted.
Still, my whole body answered.
Heat curled low in my stomach, sudden and humiliating. My breathing changed. I gripped the edge of the counter and looked at those four words until they stopped being words and became a line drawn in front of me.
Be there.
On time.
Do what you’re told.
I typed, Okay.
Deleted it.
Typed, Got it.
Deleted that too.
Finally, I sent, I won’t be.
His reply came after a minute.
See that you aren’t.
I set the phone face down like it had burned me.
For a while, I just stood in my kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant traffic below my window. My head was not quiet. Not completely. It still moved, still grabbed at guilt, confusion, Vanessa’s tired smile, Roman’s worried eyes, the fact that Declan had a wife and I had no business reacting to him like this.
But underneath the noise, there was a line.
Seven.
Don’t be late.
I liked being challenged. That wasn’t new. I had built a career on people telling me I couldn’t do something and then making them watch me do it twice.
I liked being corrected when the correction was fair. That was harder to admit, but true. The right correction didn’t make me smaller. It gave the chaos somewhere to go.
And approval.
God, I wanted to earn it from him.
Not applause. Not cameras. Not the league calling me electric or difficult or whatever word they used when they wanted my talent without the rest of me attached.
His approval.
Specific. Measured. Not easy.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until colors sparked behind them.
