He glanced up then. His eyes moved over me—quick,precise, taking in the change, the absence of the dress, the way I’d covered myself without really hiding anything—and then settled back on my face.
“I know.” The thread pulled tight again.
I took another step closer before I could stop myself, drawn in by something smoldering between us again. The edge of the coffee table pressed lightly into my leg, anchoring me there as I watched him work.
His hands were steady. Like none of this—none of what had just happened—had touched him the same way it had me.
“Is this how you deal with everything?” I asked before I could stop myself, edged with something I wasn’t ready to unpack. “You just… fix it?”
He didn’t answer right away.
The needle moved again. In. Out. Pull.
“If I break it.”
My breath caught.
I looked down at the dress in his hands, at the careful line he was stitching back together, and something in my chest twisted tight enough to hurt.
“This isn’t something you can just fix,” I sighed.
His hand stilled for half a second before he set the needle down on the cushion beside him, the thread still attached, the work not quite finished.
Then he looked at me fully. “You’re right.”
“Then why are you?—”
“Because it’s the part I can.” His head nodded toward the dress as his eyes shifted.
My pulse kicked harder, the air between us tightening again. Less chaotic. More… intentional.
“That doesn’t change what happened,” I whispered, forcing the words out, forcing them into something structured, something I could hold onto. “We can’t just?—”
“I’m not pretending it didn’t.”
My breath stuttered.
“That’s not what I meant,” I snapped, the edge slipping in before I could smooth it out. “I mean we can’t just act like that was—like it’s—” I broke off, my throat collapsing around the words that refused to line up the way they were supposed to. “This was a mistake.”
“No.”
My jaw tightened. “Alois?—”
“We’re not doing that.” The way he said it—like he was stating something already decided—sent something sharp up my spine.
“Doing what?” I demanded.
“Calling it something it’s not.”
My chest rose too fast, my breath stuttering as frustration pushed in hard and familiar.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I shot back, stepping closer without realizing it, the space between us dangerously shrinking. “What exactly would you call it?”
His gaze didn’t waver. “You and me. Together.”
“This isn’t—” I dragged a hand through my hair, pacing a step away before turning back to him, trying to find something solid to stand on. “This isn’t part of the plan. This complicates everything. My job—your situation—everything we’ve been trying to manage?—”
“It already happened.”