Caging me in without touching.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing when it comes to you,” he admits.
And that confession?
That’s what does it.
Not the closeness.
Not the heat.
The honesty.
The raw confusion.
“I don’t act like this,” he murmurs. “I don’t lose my head. I don’t—” He exhales sharply. “I don’t get territorial over someone I barely know.”
The word territorial sends a ripple through me.
“You were territorial,” I say quietly.
“I know.”
“And?”
“And I don’t understand it.”
His forehead nearly brushes mine now.
We’re breathing the same air.
My hands are fisted in the front of his shirt and I don’t remember grabbing it.
“You don’t get to act like I’m yours,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
Then back up.
“I’m not saying you are.”
“But you want to.”
There it is.
The truth.
His chest rises.
Falls.
Slow.
“Yeah,” he says.
No hesitation.
No joke.