Her breath stutters.
Good.
She should see this, feel this. Because I do.
Every second of the day since I met her.
I step forward.
The city lights flash behind her, outlining her like something unreal—soft and glowing and completely at odds with the hard, relentless world outside that glass.
She doesn’t belong to that world.
And I don’t belong in hers.
I know that. I knew it the second I saw her.
I told her as much.
Tried to draw that line. Tried to walk away.
But I was wrong.
Because standing here now, close enough to feel the heat of her, to see the way her pulse jumps at her throat—I realize there is no line.
There never was.
There’s just me and her, and we belong together. I don’t give a fuck what anyone else has to say about it.
I force myself to walk to her slowly, one foot in front of the other.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, standing in front of me like a perfect sacrifice,” I murmur.
My hand lifts.
Slower than I’ve ever moved in my life.
Not because I don’t want to touch her—because I do.
I really fucking do.
But because this?
This isn’t for rushing. This isn’t just something I take.
This is something, someone, I choose. And I want her to choose me, too.
My fingers brush her arm.
Soft.
Barely there.
And it hits me harder than any crowd, any stage, any drop I’ve ever built.
Real. She’s so real.
I exhale slowly, trying to get a handle on the way everything inside me is shifting.