Page 110 of Show Me

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Then what’re you mad at?” He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t move either. Just stands there, close enough that the space between us feels like it’s shrinking by the second.

“At myself.”

I blink at the raw vulnerability in his expression. That shouldn’t change anything, but it does. I don’t know if it changes enough.

“Yeah.” I straighten my shoulders. “Well. That’s not my problem.”

“Isn’t it?”

My breath catches at the low tone of his voice. It curls around my body, tightening what is best left unaffected by him. But when am I not affected by him? I try to step back again.

This time, his hand shifts higher on my arm, firmer. Not trapping and not letting me go either.

“Xavier–”

“I left,” he says, cutting me off. “I sent that message as none of this mattered. Like you didn’t matter.”

Pain stabs in my chest, nearly knocking me over. Knowing what he did and hearing him say it out loud are clearly two different levels of pain. “I didn’t ask you to–”

“I know.” His voice is rougher. Jaw tighter. Brows lower. “That’s the point.”

My chest squeezes. Too much. Too fast. “Then why are you here?” I mean it as a challenge. It doesn’t sound like one.

“Because you didn’t call.”

“Don’t make this about your ego.”

His eyes flash as his nostrils flare. “This isn’t about my ego.” His hand slides from my arm to my waist before I can process it, not pulling, just there, solid, grounding, impossible to ignore. “This is about someone who could’ve hurt you, and you made the conscious decision not to tell me. That kills me.”

“I don’t need you to feel some kind of weird obligation to protect me.”

“But I do.” His eyes are grave as they meet mine. “I’m not walking away from it either.”

My pulse is loud in my ears. This is a mistake. I know it. He knows it. Everything about this says stop. I don’t.

My hands come up without thinking, pushing against his chest, not hard enough to move him. Just enough to feel him. Solid. Real. Too close.

“You’re making this worse.” My voice comes out as a low whisper.

“Probably.” His thumb shifts against my side, sending a delicious chill along my skin.

My breath catches. I should move. I don’t. He doesn’t do relationships, and I’m not the kind of person people stay for. It’s wrong. But it feels right. Or inevitable.

The space between us disappears in slow increments. Him stepping in. Me not stepping back. Until there’s nothing left of it.

My heart is racing as thunder rumbles again, closer this time. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Didn’t say it would.” His voice is lower now as his eyes darken with unmistakable desire. Closer. The air feels tight. Charged.

My gaze drops to his mouth. That’s all it takes. His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me in the rest of the way. The first contact isn’t soft. Not tentative. It’s immediate, friction, heat, everything we’ve been holding back hitting all at once.

I kiss him back before I can think about it. Before I can stop it. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, like there’s any space left to close. There isn’t.

His other hand comes up, stroking my jaw, my neck, holding me there as the kiss deepens, rougher than it should be, sharper, like neither of us is easing into it. There’s no easing—just impact.

My back hits the counter. I barely register it. Everything is him. His hands, his breath, the way he says my name under his breath like he didn’t mean to. Like it slipped.