I'd promised myself I wouldn't get involved. Promised myself I'd keep my distance. Stay professional. Ignore the pull I felt every time she walked into a room. And I'd lasted less than two weeks before touching her face in a dark parking lot like I had any claim to gentleness. Like I deserved to be the one who made her feel safe.
I reached my truck and gripped the door handle hard enough to hurt.
The worst part?
I'd wanted to linger. Wanted to cup her face properly. Brush my thumb across that soft curve of her cheek. Lean in close enough to hear her breathing and figure out if the hitch meant fear or something else entirely. Wanted to stay until she stopped looking at me like I might disappear.
I yanked the door open. Climbed inside. Slammed it shut. Sat in the dark cab with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel and my hands white-knuckled on the dash.
I could still feel her. And I hated myself for it.
I drove in silence. No music. No radio. Nothing but the hum of tires on asphalt and the ragged rhythm of my own breathing. White-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Jaw locked. Eyes fixed on the road like it might offer salvation if I stared hard enough.
It didn't.
Red light.
I stopped. Waited. Stared at the glowing signal and felt everything I'd been shoving down claw its way back up.
Her soft breath when my fingers brushed her temple. The way she'd looked up at me—wide-eyed, startled, but not afraid. The tremble in her fingers when they'd met mine over the keys. How she'd leaned into my touch without thinking. Just a fraction. Just enough to wreck me.
Desire slammed through my chest—hot, sharp, unwanted.
I wanted her. Not the vague, distant pull I'd been pretending didn't exist. Not the protective instinct I could justify as professional concern.
I wanted her mouth. Her hands. Her trust. Her laughter. The sound she'd make if I kissed her throat and whispered her name against her skin.
Guilt followed immediately, vicious and cutting.
She trusts you.
The light turned green. I drove.
You shouldn't touch what you can't protect.
My fingers tightened until the leather groaned.
I'd saved her once. Pulled her out of hell when she was a kid who couldn't save herself. She didn't owe me anything for that—not gratitude, not affection, certainly not whatever softness I'd seen in her eyes tonight.
And I sure as hell didn't get to take advantage of it.
Another red light.
I almost pulled over. Almost yanked the truck to the curb and sat there until I could breathe normally again.
Almost.
But stopping meant thinking. Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant feeling the ghost of her skin beneath my fingertips and the way my pulse had kicked when she hadn't pulled away.
You're not that man. Not anymore. Don't become him.
I wasn't my father. Wasn't the kind of man who took what he wanted without caring about consequences. Who used power to control. Who twisted protection into possession.
I wouldn't do that to her. Couldn't.
The road blurred. I blinked hard, forcing focus.
Green light.
