“Doing what?” she asks quietly.
“Breathing like that.”
She lets out a soft laugh that isn’t really a laugh, and I have to close my eyes to keep from saying something worse. I stay there, my palm flat against her back, feeling the slow rise and fall of her breathing.
She smells like soap and citrus, clean and sharp and nothing like the perfume she usually hides behind. It’s too easy to want her like this—undone, still trying to pretend she isn’t trembling under my hand.
I lean in, my mouth close enough to catch the edge of her ear when I whisper, “You have no idea how much I hate this.”
Her breath catches again. “Hate what?”
“This,” I say, my words low, almost a growl. “Standing here, pretending I don’t want to touch you.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. She doesn’t look away, and neither do I.
“Thanks,” she says finally, her voice unsteady.
I drop my hand and take a step back before I forget why we’re even here. My pulse won’t slow, my body won’t listen, and the only thing keeping me from pulling her back against me is the door waiting between us and the rest of the world.
“This doesn’t happen again,” I warn her.
She turns, a faint smile on her mouth. “Agreed.”
* * *
Tessa hasn’t shut up since we left the room.
Not in a talkative way. In a silent, pointed way. The kind where every step, every tug of the leash, every clipped breath says she’s fine when she’s obviously not. It’s worse than arguing. At least when she’s arguing, I can fight back.
We walk Waffles through the courtyard toward the restaurant. Tessa’s shoes slap against the pavement in short, fast bursts that match her mood, and the dog snorts at everything in sight. I’ve told her to slow down—twice. And she’s ignored me—twice.
I match her pace because arguing about speed would make it worse, and I already know I’m one comment away from setting her off. The silence between us isn’t peace; it’s control, and she’s holding on to it.
Waffles stops to sniff a patch of grass, and Tessa uses it as an excuse to take another half step ahead. I tighten my grip on the leash before the dog bolts, mostly so I have something to do with my hands.
“You’re mad,” I say finally.
“I’m not mad.”
She says it too quickly, too flat.
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
I exhale through my nose, fighting the urge to laugh. “Then stop walking like you’re trying to outpace your problems.”
That earns me a look—one sharp, warning glance over her shoulder that would make most people back off. I don’t.
“You think you know everything,” she says, voice even.
“I know you,” I say. “And I know that when you stop talking, it’s because you’re overthinking. Usually about me.”
Her jaw tightens. “You wish.”
“I don’t have to wish,” I say, catching her step until we’re side by side again. “I can feel it.”
She keeps her eyes forward. “You’re not that special.”
