“That’s exactly what it was,” he cuts in, quieter now. “And you shut down the second he showed up.”
I hold his gaze.
“I handled it.”
“You avoided it.”
“I managed it.”
“You deflected it.”
The back-and-forth comes easier than it should. Too easy. Like we’ve already learned how to push at each other without hesitation.
“Not everything needs to be handled the way you handle things,” I say.
“And how’s that?”
“Direct. Forceful. Like if you push hard enough, everything will fall into place, whether it’s ready to or not.”
His jaw tightens.
“Better than pretending something isn’t there and hoping it fixes itself.”
“I’m not pretending—”
“You are.”
The word lands flat. Something snaps.
“I don’t owe you an explanation,” I say, my voice sharper now.
“You don’t,” he agrees.
He takes another step closer. Now he’s in my space. Now I feel it. Every inch.
“I’m asking anyway,” he adds.
The air tightens. My pulse kicks up. This—This is exactly what I didn’t want. Exactly what I knew would happen if I stayed here too long, worked too close, let this thing between us build without naming it.
I should step back. Instead I let the subtle scent of hard-earned sweat and something uniquely Holt swirl around me.
“You don’t get to decide what I talk about,” I say.
“No,” he says again. “But I get to decide what I ignore.”
My breath catches slightly.
“And you’re not ignoring this?”
“No.”
The space between us shrinks without either of us moving. Or maybe we do. I’m not entirely sure.
All I know is that suddenly—he’s close. Too close. Close enough that I can see the faint line of stubble along his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls slower than mine, the way his gaze drops for half a second to my mouth before coming back up.
There it is. The line. The one we’ve been circling since yesterday. The one neither of us has crossed. Yet.
“You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be,” I say, but my voice doesn’t carry the weight it should.
