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She took a breath. "I think that's what scares me."

"What?"

"That you aren't just trying to get me into bed."

I frowned. She gave a small, humorless laugh.

"I know how to deal with men who want something from me. I know how to recognize it. I know how to set boundaries and manage expectations."

"Sounds romantic."

"Exactly." Her eyes met mine. "But I don't know what to do with you."

I smiled. "Most people don't. It's part of my charm."

She didn't laugh. Instead, she whispered, "You make me feel things I don't know what to do with."

And just like that, every smart-ass comment I'd ever made abandoned me. I covered her hand with mine.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "I know the feeling."

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

The room was quiet except for the hum of the ceiling fan and the faint sound of crickets outside the window.

Then her gaze dropped to my mouth again. And stayed there. I felt my pulse kick up.

"You're staring," I said.

"So are you."

"Sweetheart, I've been staring at you for two years."

She smiled. "That's a little creepy."

"I like to think of it as romantically persistent."

"Stalker-adjacent."

"Devoted."

"Delusional."

"Hopelessly smitten."

That shut her up. Her eyes widened slightly. I probably should've walked that one back.

Made a joke. Told her I was kidding. Instead, I let the words hang between us.

Because they were true. Every damn one of them. She wet her lips. I followed the movement before I could stop myself.

"You're doing it again," she whispered.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like that."

"Like what?"