Just not the truth he means.
His gaze narrows slightly, like he’s trying to pull something out of me that I won’t give, and for a second it feels like he might keep pushing, might force it open.
Instead, he leans in.
And everything shifts.
The contact isn’t gentle.
It isn’t hesitant. There’s something under it now, something less restrained, something that’s been building and finally has somewhere to go.
My hand moves without thinking, sliding up along his shoulder, fingers catching briefly on the edge of bone before settling, anchoring, and the sensation sends a sharp line of awareness through me that I can’t ignore even if I wanted to.
“You’re not thinking clearly,” he murmurs against my mouth.
“I am,” I whisper back, my voice steady even as my pulse refuses to match it.
“That’s worse.”
“Probably.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh, low and rough, and then he stops talking.
Which is better.
Because if he keeps talking, I might answer, and if I answer, I might say something I can’t take back.
His hands shift, one sliding to my waist, pulling me closer, the movement firm, unyielding, and I let it happen, step into it instead of resisting, because this—this is something I chose.
Not the circumstances.
Not the outcome.
But this moment.
The room feels smaller, warmer, the air thicker, and I can feel every point of contact with a clarity that borders on overwhelming, his grip, his breath, the way he moves like he’s holding something back even now.
“You’re different tonight,” he says quietly, his voice lower, more focused.
“So are you,” I reply.
“I have reason.”
“So do I.”
He pauses at that, just enough to register it, and I feel the question form before he says it.
“What reason?”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I shift closer, closing the last of the distance myself, taking the control of it back just enough to redirect where this goes, because if I let him lead completely, he’ll start asking questions I can’t afford to answer.
His hands tighten slightly in response, not resisting, but acknowledging the shift, and for a moment we’re balanced in that space, neither of us fully in control, both of us aware of it.
“Stacy,” he starts.
I cut him off the only way that works.
