The same glow she had an hour ago when I?—
Stop.
I force my hands still. My reflection stares back from the mirror, and I don’t recognize the man there. He looks... softer. Fed. Like something starving in him finally got what it needed.
Tessa appears in the doorway, and my hands freeze.
The dress she’s wearing is silk, deep green, with an open back and, it’s going to torture me all evening. Her hair is still damp from the shower, leaving wet spots on the silk that make the fabric transparent in places it shouldn’t be. She’s barefoot, shoes dangling from her fingers.
She’s smiling. Not the sharp, defensive smile she’s been wielding like a weapon since she showed up at my door with thatdamn dog. This is the smile from before. From when she used to wake up in my bed on Sunday mornings, soft and unguarded.
The smile that says she’s full. Satisfied.
The smile that says I did that.
My body responds immediately, and my fingers itch to pull her back against me, to mess up her dress and make us later than we already are.
“You missed a loop,” she says, moving behind me.
“No, I didn’t.” But I let her fix it anyway.
Her knuckles brush my throat as she adjusts the tie. Such an innocent touch, but my body remembers other touches. Her nails on my back thirty minutes ago. Her teeth on my shoulder…
“You’re staring again,” she murmurs, catching my eyes in the mirror.
“You’re wearing that dress.”
The words come out rougher than intended, heavy with everything I’m not saying. That she looks like every fantasy I’ve tried not to have for three years. I want to lock the door and spend the rest of the evening proving that this thing between us isn’t dead, just dormant.
We both freeze, caught in the mirror’s reflection. The air between us thickens, becoming something living. I watch pink creep up her neck, watch her pulse flutter at the base of her throat where I had my mouth twenty minutes ago.
She finishes the knot with a little tug—tighter than necessary. Her fingers linger against my chest, palm flat over my heart. I hope she realizes how much effort it’s taking not to spin her around and kiss her until she screams.
“There,” she whispers, but she doesn’t step back.
Neither do I.
We stand there, her front pressed to my back, watching each other in the mirror.
An hour ago, she was crying my name.
Her thumb moves, a tiny stroke over my heart. “We should go.”
“We should.”
But neither of us moves. Because moving means breaking this spell. Means pretending again. Means taking this thing we just broke wide open and shoving it back into a box markedprofessional arrangement.
I turn my head slightly. “That dress is going to be a problem.”
She smiles against my shoulder, and I feel it through my shirt. “Good.”
The word is deliberately provocative. The Tessa I remember. The one who used to challenge me just to watch me rise to meet her.
“Careful,” I murmur, letting my voice drop to that register that used to make her shiver. “We have to be convincing tonight.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, dark and knowing. “Do you?”
No. It’s not.
