And I don’t laugh.
I don’t deflect.
Because I know what he means.
The silence stretches between us, but it isn’t empty. It’s humming. Charged.
He’s still too close.
I’m still backed against the desk.
His hand lifts again.
This time, it doesn’t stop.
His fingers hover near my jaw, barely brushing a strand of hair away from my cheek.
The touch is light.
Careful.
Like I might bolt.
Like I might shatter.
My pulse is pounding everywhere.
“You shouldn’t,” I whisper.
“Shouldn’t what?” he asks, voice rough.
“Look at me like that.”
His thumb grazes just under my ear.
Slow.
Intentional.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided something.”
His jaw flexes.
“I haven’t,” he says.
It sounds like a lie.
My breath stutters.
“You’re leaving,” I say again, but it comes out weaker this time.
“I don’t know,” he repeats.
“You do.”
His other hand braces on the desk beside me.