“That I want to own what he broke?”
Her gaze snaps to mine.
I hate saying it. Hate that the words exist.
But there they are between us, and pretending they are not doesn’t help.
“Yes,” she whispers.
I nod.
The alley goes quiet around us.
“I don’t want to own you,” I say.
Her mouth trembles. “Men say things.”
“Yeah. They do.”
“And then they want.”
I can’t lie.
Not about this.
“I want.”
Her breath catches.
I step away from the door and stop several feet from her. “I want a lot of things I got no business wanting.”
Her eyes darken again.
Fear.
Heat.
Confusion.
Same as mine, probably.
“But wanting ain’t taking,” I say. “Not if a man has any damn honor.”
“You think you have honor?”
“No,” I say. “I think I have rules.”
That lands better.
She steps closer.
Not much.
Enough.
“The dancing,” she says.
“What about it?”