I don’t.
She brushes past me. Light. Deliberate. Her shoulder barely grazes my arm.
I don’t react. Don’t shift. Don’t give her anything.
She knows I noticed. I know she knows. She keeps moving.
I track her anyway.
She circles once. Twice. Then stops just within reach.
I don’t look at her directly. I feel her. Every inch. Every shift of her weight. Every breath.
Then her fingers slip under the edge of my shirt at my side. Quick. Unexpected. A tickle.
My hand moves before the thought forms. I catch her wrist. Fast. Controlled. Not rough. But firm enough that she knows exactly where the line is. “Don’t,” I say. It comes out rougher than I intend.
Her mouth curves. She grins at me like I didn’t just warn her. Like she’s not reading the tension in my body. Or like she is and she doesn’t care. “Or what?” she asks lightly.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
She pulls her wrist free. Steps back just enough to give herself space. Then does it again. Her fingers dart in under my shirt, quicker this time.
That’s when I move. I grab her. Both hands. One at her waist, the other catching her arm as I pull her into me. Momentum shifts instantly. Her balance goes.
Mine doesn’t. I turn. Guide. Push.
The bed catches her first.
I follow. Not hard enough to hurt. More than enough to control. She lands on her back with a breath that’s half surprise, half something else. I brace over her, one hand planted near her head, the other holding her in place at her hip. She’s pinned. Not trapped. Not restrained. But there’s no question who’s in control.
“Think that’s funny?” I murmur. My voice is low.
Her eyes meet mine. Bright. Alive. And she laughs. The sound hits me in the chest like something I don’t know how to process. It cuts through the replay in my head.
It doesn’t erase it. Nothing erases it. But it shifts something. Just enough.
She lifts herself slightly. Closes the space between us. And kisses me. Soft. At first. Careful. Then deeper. And everything in me stutters.
My grip shifts. Loosens. Then tightens again, but not to hold her down. To hold her there. My mouth moves against hers without thinking. Without calculating. Without control dictating every second. It’s not about taking. It’s not about consuming. It’s about her.
Here. Alive.
Under me.
Choosing this. Choosing me.
The tension doesn’t disappear. It redirects. Focus narrows. Not on threat. On her.
Her hands slide up my chest. Into my hair. Her body shifts under mine, not trying to get away, not resisting. Meeting me. Matching me. And the words come out before I can stop them. “Fuck… I love you.”
Silence hits immediately after. Heavy. Thick.
Everything in me locks. I freeze. Like I just crossed a line I can’t uncross. Because I did. Too soon. Too exposed. Too fucking…
I don’t pull back. I don’t take it back. I can’t.Because it’s true. Because it’s been true since the second I saw her.
Before I even knew what it was. Before I had a name for it. Before she was anything more than a girl walking down the wrong street at the wrong time.
