I turn away first. Back toward the couch. Back toward the women. But I’m smiling now. Because I get it. Not all of it. Not even close. But enough. Enough to know how he works. Enough to know how to move around it.
And maybe…
How to move him.
Just a little.
I notice it the first time because it shouldn’t matter. It’s nothing. Just her hand brushing my arm when she passes me on her way to the kitchen, her fingers light, barely there, like she didn’t mean to touch me at all. But my body reacts like she put a knife to my throat. Everything locks. Not violent. Not aggressive. Still. Tight. Controlled in a way that isn’t control at all, it’s containment.
I don’t move. Don’t look at her. Don’t acknowledge it. But I feel it. Every inch of it. The heat where her fingers touched. The echo of it under my skin like something just woke up that I’ve spent years keeping buried. She keeps moving like nothing happened. Like she didn’t just knock something loose inside me.
Good. Better that way.
I shift my stance slightly, grounding myself back into something solid, something familiar. The room comes back into focus. Noise, voices, movement. The usual rhythm of the clubhouse settling back in around me like it’s supposed to. It doesn’t stick.Because she does it again. Later. Different angle. Same impact.
She leans past me to grab something off the counter, her shoulder brushing mine this time. Close enough that I catch the scent of her shampoo, something clean and soft that doesn’t belong in a place like this but fits her anyway.
My hand curls at my side. Not grabbing. Not reaching. Just reacting. I step back. Not obvious. Not something anyone else would catch. But it’s there. Distance. Control.
She glances at me when she straightens, just for a second, like she’s checking. Like she knows. I don’t react. Don’t give her anything. But she saw it. I know she did. That’s the problem.
It builds.
Slow. Steady. Every interaction stacks on top of the last one. Her laugh from across the room when Blaze says something stupid. The way she tilts her head when she’s listening, like she’s trying to understand not just the words but the people behind them.
The way she looks at me. That one is worse than the touch. Because she’s not looking at me like everyone else does. Not cautious. Not wary. Not trying to figure out how dangerous I am.She’s figuring me out. Like I’m something she can learn. That doesn’t sit right. That doesn’t sit wrong either.
It just… is.
Dinner makes it worse.
We all end up around the long table, food spread out in a way that looks chaotic but isn’t. Plates passed, voices overlapping, kids still loud even when they’re supposed to be settling down.
Olivia sits across from me at first. That’s fine. Distance. Control. Then someone shifts, someone moves, and suddenly she’s beside me instead. Close. Not touching. But close enough that I feel the heat of her body without trying.
I focus on the plate in front of me. On the food. On anything that isn’t her. It doesn’t work.
“You actually eat?” she says suddenly, her voice quiet enough that it doesn’t carry across the table.
I glance at her.
She’s watching me. Curious. Not pushing. Just asking.
“Sometimes.”
Her lips twitch slightly. “That’s reassuring.”
I huff a breath that might be the closest thing to a laugh I’ve given all day. “Didn’t think you’d be picky.”
“I’m not,” she says. “I just didn’t expect you to sit down and have a normal conversation.”
“Who says this is normal?” She tilts her head, considering that.
“Fair point.” There’s a pause. Not awkward. Not forced.
Then she asks, “Did you always live like this?”
I take a second before answering. “Not always.”
