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“But.” His voice goes quiet, certain in a way that makes my pulse kick. “You’re not something I gamble with.”

I rip myself free.

“I’m not a child, Malek Vane.” The words burn going down. “I’m not something you keep small and hidden so you can feel righteous about your choices.”

His hand comes up fast—too fast for thought—and suddenly his fingers are on my chin.

Skin to skin.

The room tilts. He’s never touched my face. Never dared. Never risked it.

This is the place he doesn’t go. The place the Gospel ruined. The place he’s been guarding from himself since before I ever knew his name.

His fingers close under my chin.

The contact is wrong instantly—too intimate, too familiar for a man who just admitted he decided what truths I was allowed to carry. His skin is warm, callused, rough in a way that should feel grounding. Instead it sends a sharp, electrical jolt straight through my jaw and down my spine, like my nerves don’t know whether to recoil or strike.

My pulse jumps, loud in my ears. I can feel it hammering where his thumb rests, a traitorous rhythm I didn’t invite. Heat flashes low in my stomach, immediate and infuriating, and my teeth clench hard enough that my jaw aches.

I don’t tilt my head up and sure as hell don’t lean into his touch. I stay rigid and let the anger vibrate through me until my teeth feel tight with it. I don’t jerk away. I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction that looks like permission or fear. I just let the silence stretch until I feel his awareness sharpen—until he realizes I’m not melting, not yielding, not asking him to keep going.

“I’m still angry.” My voice stays calm, and I watch it land harder than shouting ever could.

His fingers tighten a fraction. Not possession. Not comfort. Reflex—the kind his body gives before his restraint catches up.

“I know.” His fingers go still beneath my chin. “I’m not asking you not to be.”

“No,” I correct. “You know I was loud.”

My eyes finally lift to his. Hold. Unblinking.

“This,” I continue evenly, “is what’s left.”

The words settle between us, heavy and immovable. I can feel his attention recalibrate—not defensive now, not braced for impact, but listening in the way men do when they realize the damage has already been done and can’t be undone by force.

“You don’t get to touch me.” My voice stays even, though every inch of me knows exactly where his fingers are. “Not like you didn’t decide what truths I was allowed to carry.”

I reach up and remove his hand myself.

His skin leaves a ghost of heat behind, my pulse still thudding like it resents being noticed. I hate that too—that part of me still reacts, still catalogs him as something close even while my trust is fractured and bleeding out.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not going,” I add before he can speak. “And it doesn’t mean I don’t see exactly what you are when things go dark.”

I take half a step back—not retreating, but reclaiming space.

“But don’t confuse my restraint for forgiveness.” I hold his stare, refusing to soften just because he’s close enough to ruin me. “And don’t mistake proximity for permission.

Something sharp flickers through his eyes. Respect. Recognition. The recalibration of a man realizing control won’t work here.

“You think I’m trying to control you.” He doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like he hates that I’m right.

“I think you’re used to protecting people by standing in front of them,” I answer. “And I’m not behind you anymore.”

That lands deeper than anything shouted earlier ever could.

The room hums—fridge motor, rain easing off, the low thrum of a world still turning despite everything that’s been carved out of it. I can feel my heartbeat settle into something deliberate. Focused.

“I’m not here to be anchored.” My voice stays quiet, but it doesn’t bend. “I’m here to move.”