Page 104 of Broken Blades

I took another sip, let the silence stretch. When I finally looked at him again, his expression had shifted. Less teasing. More serious.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "you weren't as embarrassing as you think."

That shouldn't have mattered.

It shouldn't have made my chest warm the way it did.

But it did.

I cleared my throat, trying to salvage what remained of my dignity. "Thank you. For… everything."

He shrugged again, but less flippantly this time. Something softer underneath. "Couldn't leave you there. You'd have gotten kidnapped."

"I wasn't that drunk."

He gave me a look that could burn a forest down. "You tried to pet the bouncer."

I died inside. Actually felt my soul leave my body. "Oh, my gosh."

"And told him you liked his eyelashes."

"STOP."

He didn't. He actually laughed—a low, warm sound I'd never heard before. Not mocking. Not cruel. Just… genuine. The kind of laugh that crinkled the corners of his eyes and softened the harsh lines of his face.

It hit me harder than the hangover. Harder than the embarrassment. Harder than anything I'd felt since stepping into his world.

I stared at him, coffee mug forgotten in my hands, watching the way his shoulders relaxed. The way his guard dropped for just a moment. The way he looked… human. Approachable. Real.

My chest tightened with something terrifying. He caught me staring. The laugh faded, but the warmth lingered in his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing." I looked down at my coffee, pulse hammering. "Just… I've never heard you laugh like that before."

The admission hung between us.

His expression shifted. Unreadable again. But not cold. Never quite cold anymore. "Don't get used to it." But his voice held no bite.

I sipped my coffee, hiding behind the rim, trying desperately to ignore the way my heart refused to steady. The way sitting here with him—hungover and mortified and wrapped in blankets he'd tucked around me—felt safer than anything had in months.

"I'm still moving to Alaska," I muttered.

"No, you're not."

"How do you know?"

He stood, collecting his empty mug. Paused before heading to the kitchen. Looked back at me with that devastating half-smirk that made my stomach flip.

"Because you prefer older men. Remember?"

My face went crimson.

I opened my mouth to fire back some devastating retort—something witty and cutting that would wipe that smug look off his face. But he stepped closer. Close enough, I could smell soap and coffee and something darker underneath. Close enough, the air shifted between us.

Then he lifted his hand—slow, deliberate—and pressed the back of it against my cheek.

My breath stopped. Completely.

His knuckles were warm. Calloused. Gentle in a way that made my entire nervous system short-circuit.