I blink.
“Excuse me?”
“Outside the shop,” he clarifies. “Especially now.”
I narrow my eyes. “And here it is.”
“Here what is?”
“The part where you try to wrap me in bubble wrap and keep me under constant supervision,” I say.
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“That’s exactly what you’re doing.”
“It’s called protecting you.”
“It’s called controlling me,” I shoot back.
The air between us sharpens.
“I’m not trying to control you,” he says, his voice lower now. “I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“And I appreciate that,” I reply. “But I’m not going to stop living my life because someonemightcome after me.”
“Theywillcome after you,” he corrects.
“Then we deal with it when it happens.”
His eyes darken.
“That’s not how this works.”
“Well, it’s howIwork,” I fire back.
Silence falls. Heavy. Tense. Then?—
Slowly—
He exhales.
“This isn’t a negotiation,” he says.
I step closer, matching his intensity.
“It is for me.”
His tiger reacts—I can feel it, that surge of something primal and possessive that tightens the space between us.
“You don’t understand the risk,” he says.
“Then help me understand it,” I challenge. “Don’t just expect me to blindly follow your rules.”
We’re close again. Too close. But this time, it’s not just heat between us. It’s friction.
Two stubborn forces refusing to give ground.
“You’re not weak,” he says finally. “But you’re not trained for this.”
