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But not because he wanted to know how the date had gone. Because he’d been worried. He admitted he wanted me to text him whenever I was out late so he’d know I was safe.

At the time, I was too angry to really think about what he was saying.

I only heard the demand and the control within it. The implication that, somehow, I needed permission to live my own life.

But the more I replay the conversation, the more I remember his face. He didn’t look controlling … he looked terrified.

As though every horrible possibility his mind could invent had already played out before I walked through the front door.

It doesn’t excuse how he spoke to me, but it also doesn’t feel like something a man says to a woman he doesn’t care about.

Which leaves me right back where I started—confused. Hopelessly, unbelievably confused.

Then my thoughts drift somewhere even more dangerous.

The way the space between us seemed to disappear until I couldn’t tell where my breathing ended and his began.

My stomach twists.

I’ve been kissed before. Enough times to know what almost happened.

Or at least, I think I do.

He was leaning toward me. I swear I wasn’t imagining that.

I know I wasn’t.

Because … God help me … I didn’t move.

I should have. Every rational part of my brain knows I should have stepped back the second he cornered me.

Instead, I stood there, watching him. Wondering what would happen if neither one of us looked away.

Then Liana cried, and everything shattered.

I wonder what would’ve happened if she’d slept another thirty seconds.

Would he have kissed me?

Would I have let him?

Would I have kissed him back?

Let’s be serious here. Of course I would have. This is Dean we are talking about.

I wrap both hands around my coffee mug again, letting the warmth ground me.

For the rest of the weekend, I stayed in my room whenever Dean was home. I waited until I heard his office door close before sneaking into the kitchen.

I timed showers around Liana’s naps because I knew he’d usually be working then.

It was ridiculous.

We live in the same apartment, yet somehow, it felt easier to avoid him than risk running into him.

Because I don’t know who he’ll be the next time I see him.

The warm, attentive man who made New York feel less lonely. Or the distant employer who answered every question with a single word.