Page 62 of Broken Blades

My pulse stuttered. Traitorous heart doing that flutter thing again. The one I'd specifically ordered it to stop. "I am not⁠—"

"You are."

The certainty in his voice made something twist low in my stomach. Not fear. Not quite. Something more dangerous.

My cheeks burned. I hated the heat spreading across my face. Hated that he could see it. Hated the knowing glint in his eyes that said he'd catalogued my reaction and filed it away for future use.

Damn him.

"This doesn't mean anything." The words came out defensive. Too quick. "I'm surviving. That's different from getting used to you."

He leaned back. That infuriating smirk still playing at the corner of his mouth. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart."

The endearment hit different this time. Less weapon. More... something else. Something that made my skin feel too tight and my thoughts scatter like startled birds.

I stood abruptly. Chair scraping again. "I'm going to my room."

"Check your email first."

Right. The Instagram post. The next performance. The endless cycle of pretending this was real when nothing about it felt remotely safe.

I grabbed my phone. Headed for the stairs without looking back. Because if I looked back—if I met those dark eyes one more time—I might do something truly stupid.

Like admit he was right.

The guest room wrapped around me like a cocoon I hadn't earned. Too comfortable. Too quiet. Too his.

I sat cross-legged on the bed, phone face-down beside me. Couldn't bring myself to look at the notifications again. Couldn't stomach another headline dissecting my life like I was public property.

The silence pressed in. Heavy. Weighted with thoughts I'd been successfully avoiding for hours.

Then it hit. Not gradually. Not gently. All at once. Like stepping off a ledge I hadn't known existed.

I was less terrified than I'd been this morning. Less stiff when he stood close. Less overwhelmed by the weight of eyes I couldn't see.

The realization settled into my chest with uncomfortable clarity.

I'd... adjusted. Not to the cameras. Those still made my skin crawl. Not to the press. They'd probably never stop feeling invasive. To him.

The way he'd anticipated the crowd at the café before I'd even registered the surge. How he'd positioned himself between me and the tightest cluster of bodies without announcing it. The precise moment he'd taken my hand—firm enough to ground me, gentle enough I could've pulled away if I'd wanted.

He hadn't asked if I was okay. Hadn't coddled me with reassurances or empty platitudes. He'd just... known. Read my discomfort in the tension of my shoulders. The shallowness of my breath. The way my fingers had twitched toward my purse strap. And he'd acted. Not kindly. Wyatt didn't do kind. But effectively. Protectively. Without making it a production.

My ex would've made a scene. Would've gotten loud and aggressive and turned my panic into his masculinity display. Would've needed me to soothe his ego afterward while my own fear went unacknowledged.

Wyatt had simply... stood near me. Steady. Immovable. A wall I hadn't asked for but leaned against, anyway.

The comparison twisted something sharp in my chest.

I pulled my knees up. Wrapped my arms around them. Pressed my forehead against the soft fabric of my leggings.

"I'm starting to get used to you."

The words escaped into the quiet. Barely a whisper. Like saying them too loud would make them more real. More damning.

My throat tightened.

I hated the truth in those seven words. Hated how they settled into my bones with uncomfortable weight. Hated that after one day—one day—of this forced proximity, my nervous system had already started cataloguing him as... not quite safe.