“Yes.”
“You should be in your seat.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“Concerned?”
“Curious.”
“That’s worse.”
I look past him into the small washroom. Nothing to see. Clean mirror. Folded towels. Soft light. His jacket hanging from a hook.
Then I look back at his face. His mouth. His hands. The tension in his body.
“What were you doing?” I ask again, softer this time.
Roman leans one shoulder against the doorframe. For a moment, I think he will lie. Then his eyes move over me. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
My breath catches. I swallow. “What does that mean?”
“It means sitting next to you is becoming difficult.”
My pulse jumps.
He looks down the empty aisle, then back at me. “Your knee touches mine, and you look at me like you have no idea what it does. Your perfume is all over my shirt. You make little sounds when you eat, then blush as if no one heard them.” His jaw tightens. “I’m trying very hard to behave.”
My skin burns. “What happens if you don’t?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I get hard enough to need privacy.”
The air leaves my lungs.
For a second, I do not understand. Then I do.
I understand the closed door. The disturbed hair. The control in his face. The way he’s standing between me and the tiny room behind him, as if hiding evidence of a weakness he does not want me to see.
He touched himself.
Because of me.
The realization moves through me like heat poured straight into my bloodstream.
All my life, I have been taught to be careful with men. Smile, but not too much. Dress beautifully, but not desperately. Be desired, but never caught wanting. Be the woman who does not make a scene even when her life is taken apart in front of her.
But something about Roman standing in this doorway, looking at me like restraint is causing him actual pain, breaks a lock inside me.
I’m tired of being good for people who don’t even care if I’m happy.
I step closer.
Roman straightens immediately. “Katerina.”
“I’m not drunk anymore.”
His eyes darken. “Go back to your seat.”
“No.” I step into the narrow space between him and the wall, close enough that the front of my sweater brushes his shirt.
