Page 145 of My Three Billionaire Rockstars

“It didn’t look like nothing.”

I let out a breath, more controlled than I feel. “It’s something I write.”

She tilts her head. “Like notes?”

“No.”

I hesitate, then open the notebook again before I can overthink it.

It’s already exposed. Containing it now doesn’t serve a purpose.

She leans in just enough to read. “I learned how to be wanted before I learned how to stay, how to hold someone close, then still turn away…”

I don’t look at the page. I watch her. That’s the higher-risk option.

“I built something careful from pieces of noise, made silence feel safer than risking a choice…”

There’s a stretch of quiet while her eyes move across the lines, and I find myself tracking the smallest shifts in her expression. Waiting for dismissal, confusion, polite interest.

None of those come.

“If I give you the truth, do you leave or remain? Do you stay when it’s quiet, or just for the flame?” She sucks in a breath. “You wrote this?”

“Yes.”

She looks up at me then, warmth settling into her expression. “It’s really good.”

“I don’t show it to anyone,” I admit.

“Really? Because it feels honest.”

“Most things I do aren’t,” I reply.

Her mouth curves. “That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“No,” she says. “You’re just used to controlling what people see.”

She’s closer than she was a minute ago.

Her fingers brush mine where they rest on the desk, light contact that lingers just long enough to feel intentional before she stills.

She doesn’t pull away.

Neither do I.

I close the distance between us in a single step.

Her lips part in surprise before I capture them with mine. The notebook falls to the floor, forgotten. Her mouth tastes faintly of coffee and mint, and I drink her in because I’ve been dying of thirst.

My hands find her waist, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her blouse.

She makes a small sound against my mouth and her fingers curl into the front of my shirt. I back her against the edge of the desk, papers scattering. Her shirt rides up as I lift her, exposing a strip of skin that burns against my palms.

When she pulls away to breathe, her pupils are blown wide, just a thin ring of color remaining. Her chest rises and falls rapidly against mine. I watch her throat move as she swallows.

“Is this okay?” she whispers, her fingers hovering at the top button of my shirt.