I take a sip. It’s stronger than I expect. It burns slower than it should. Lingers.
His grip loosens, but doesn’t fully leave. “You’re tense,” he says.
“I’m not.”
His thumb presses once against my hand—not enough to hurt, just enough to be felt. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You are.”
This time, I pull my hand back. Small. Controlled.
He lets me. But something in his gaze sharpens as he continues to watch me. “You don’t have to do that here,” he says.
“Do what?”
“That thing where you act like you’re deciding whether something’s safe.”
My stomach drops. “I’ve had to.”
“I know.” The answer comes too easily.
I swallow. “How?”
There’s a pause—not long, just enough to register. “I pay attention.”
Something cold slides down my spine. I take another drink, faster this time.
He notices. Just like he seems to notice everything. “Slow down.”
I don’t, and take another sip.
His hand moves again. This time to my thigh. Not testing or asking. Just settling there like it belongs.
My breath stutters. “Soren?—”
“Relax,” he says quietly. His fingers press slightly, holding me in place without looking like he is. “Nothing bad is going to happen to you here.”
The words should calm me. Instead, something in his tone suggests they’re not entirely a guarantee.
I shift, trying to create space.
His hand tightens. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop me. “Don’t move.”
My pulse spikes. I could move anyway. Push his hand off. Laugh it off. Make it light. I don’t.
Because the truth is, I don’t want to make him. And that realization lands heavier than anything else.
My phone buzzes in my bag. Sharp. Out of place. Too loud for a room like this. I reach for it.
His hand catches mine again. Faster this time. Tighter. “Don’t.”
I freeze.
His eyes lock on mine. No anger, no edge. Just that same steady certainty. “Not right now.”
The room fades. The sound. The movement. The people.
Everything pulls back until it’s just him. And the way he’s looking at me. Like this was always going to happen. Like I was always going to end up here.
With him.