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His eyes are still glowing faintly, heat and something almost wild burning behind them.

“Grimm?”

He closes his eyes. When he opens them again, whatever I saw is buried beneath that maddening control of his.

But his hands are still on me. He hasn't let go.

And I don't want him to.

So maybe it's the wine.

Maybe it's the chocolate.

Maybe it's the fact that I've spent thirty-six years being the woman who avoids confrontation, makes excuses, and lets everyone else decide what happens next because asking for what I want is terrifying.

But I don't want to do that right now.

Not with him.

I gather every scrap of nerve I possess.

“Come inside.”

Grimm goes still.

“I told you⁠—”

“No.”

Look at me.

Interrupting a man.

Personal growth.

“I heard what you said. You shouldn't.” I swallow. “I'm asking if you want to.”

His expression changes.

Oh.

That's different.

The glow in his eyes intensifies. His gaze drops to my mouth.

“Agatha.”

My name sounds like a warning. Or a plea.

Possibly both.

I step closer.

“Come inside with me, Grimm.”

His chest rises on a deep breath. Then his eyes find mine.

“Are you sure?”