“I don’t forgive you,” she says quietly.
“I don’t expect you to.”
The admission costs less than it should.
“But I know you didn’t mean to. None of us could have predicted this. But it’s like I don’t know how to stop being mad.”
She studies me for a long moment, as if deciding whether to step away or closer.
She steps closer.
The movement is subtle. Intentional.
Her arm presses lightly against mine once more but deliberate this time.
The effect is not subtle.
Every nerve in my body sharpens at once – not in agitation this time, but in alignment. The restlessness that’s plagued me all afternoon evaporates entirely. My breathing evens. My thoughts clear.
She inhales sharply.
“You feel that,” she whispers.
“Yes.”
The word comes out rougher than I intend.
Her hand lifts, hesitates, then settles against my chest – over my sternum. Not intimate. Not claiming.
Testing.
The contact sends a low current through my system that I have to consciously restrain from responding to. My instincts surge forward, not to dominate, not to bite, but to anchor. To pull her fully into my space and lock the alignment into place.
I don’t move.
She watches my restraint with something that isn’t quite anger.
“You’re not shaking now,” she says softly.
“I wasn’t shaking.”
“You were restless.”
I don’t deny it.
Her palm remains over my chest. My heartbeat slows beneath it, steadying in a rhythm that feels dangerously matched to hers.
“This is mutual,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“If I step away,” she says carefully, “does it come back?”
The agitation?
The tightness?