Instead, I lift my hand and place it against his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm beneath it, the heat of him grounding in a way that is dangerous because it makes everything else feel less certain.
“This doesn’t get to be complicated,” I say quietly.
His hand closes around my wrist instantly, not rough, not gentle, just firm enough to stop me from pulling away.
“It already is,” he says.
I hold his gaze.
“Then don’t make it worse.”
His jaw tightens.
“That’s not how this works,” he replies, his voice dropping lower, something sharper threading through it now. “You don’t get to walk in here, say something like that, and expect me to?—”
“I’m not asking you to do anything,” I cut in, my tone even “I’m telling you what I need.”
“And what exactly is that?” he demands.
I don’t look away.
“You.”
The word lands between us, simple and loaded at the same time, and I feel the shift in him immediately, the way his grip tightens slightly, the way his breath changes, just enough to register.
“For how long?” he asks.
There’s something in the question that almost breaks me.
Almost.
“Right now,” I say.
His eyes search mine, not casually, not lightly, but with a precision that makes it clear he’s looking for something I can’t let him find.
“You’re not telling me something,” he says.
“I’m telling you enough,” I reply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I agree. “It isn’t.”
The tension stretches between us, thick, tangible, and I can feel the moment where he decides not to push further, not because he doesn’t want to, but because something in him chooses not to.
His hand slides from my wrist to my jaw, rougher now, more certain, his thumb brushing along my cheek in a way that feels less like inspection and more like confirmation.
“You don’t get to disappear after this,” he says.
The words hit harder than anything else.
I don’t react.
Not visibly.
“I’m not disappearing,” I reply.
That’s not a lie.
