My hands tremble.
I should say something. I should tell him to slow down. I should tell him this is insane. But my body is still warm from his bed. Still softened by his food.
Still high on the feeling of being wanted.
And the truth is, no one has said they loved me like this in a long time. Not like they meant it. Not like I was something worth being claimed.
Soren reaches up and cups my face. His thumb brushes my cheek. His gaze is intense, unwavering. “Move here soon,” he says softly.
My heart slams into my ribs. “What? You’re really serious about all of this?” I whisper.
He nods. “Yes,” he says. “Go back, sort out whatever you need to do, get your stuff, and then move here. With me. I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to fight anymore.”
My eyes sting.
Because I’ve been fighting for so long—to be believed. To be safe. To be normal. To not collapse—or disappear completely.
His thumb strokes my cheek again. He leans in slightly. “You can stop now,” he murmurs. “You can let me do it.”
My throat tightens.
And suddenly I hate him.
Not because he’s wrong.
Because he’s offering me something that feels like relief.
And relief is the most dangerous drug there is when you’ve been in pain for too long.
I step back.
His hands fall away. His expression shifts. A flicker of something sharp.
Then it smooths out again. He smiles. Patient. Controlled. Like he’s waiting for me to come to the right conclusion.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
His eyes narrow. “Yes, you can,” he says quietly.
I shake my head. “I just—I just got here,” I say. “I don’t even know you very well. This was only meant to be a weekend visit.”
Soren’s smile doesn’t move. But his eyes harden. “You do know me,” he says.
The certainty in his voice makes my stomach churn.
I swallow. “I need to go home,” I say again, firmer this time.
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he exhales through his nose. A slow, controlled breath, and his voice drops, softer. “Okay,” he says. “Go home.”
Relief floods me.
Then he steps closer again. He touches my jaw lightly, tilting my face toward his. “But you’re coming back,” he murmurs.
It isn’t a question.
“I don’t know?—”
“You are,” he repeats. His voice is gentle, but it’s also final. And something about the combination makes my skin prickle.