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“Liar.”

“Delusional.”

“It pisses me off.”

“What does?”

“When you pretend I don’t exist.”

His brows pull together, defensive. “That’s not my business. Your ego can survive without my attention.”

I hold his gaze. “I don’t think you want to piss me off.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you threatening me now?”

“Just a warning.”

He pushes at my chest with both hands. “Move.”

I don’t.

He tries again, harder this time, and I let the force go nowhere between us.

“You’re insufferable,” he snaps.

“And you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You talked for ten minutes straight about Dimitri’s couch and the audacity of gravel driveways. You’re flustered.”

“I was making conversation.”

“You were panicking.”

“I was not—”

I lift a hand and brush damp hair back from his forehead. I noticed my touch can melt him sometimes way faster than if I use force. My fingers slide from his hair to his cheek, and I can feel his body leaning into me even when he swats at my wrist and says, “Stop touching me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. It’s easy. You just don’t do it.”

“I’m incapable of not touching you. I need it like I need air.”

I lean forward, and now my hips press into his. A sound catches in his throat, and his hand flies up to cover his mouth.

I grab his wrist gently but firmly and pull his hand away. “Don’t do that. I want to hear you.”

Before he can answer, I dip my head until my mouth is near his ear and let my voice drop.

“Tomorrow. Nine.”

He stiffens. “What?”

“I’ll text you the address.”

His eyes sharpen. “Why would I come?”