The night pressed against the windows like a living thing—thick, heavy, almost watchful. She sat on the edge of the bed, knees drawn up slightly, the fabric of the blanket twisted in her hands. The room felt too quiet, the air too still, as if everything around her were waiting for something she hadn't decided yet.
A soft knock cut through the silence.
Not urgent. Not hesitant either.
Just… familiar.
Her breath caught.
There was only one person who knocked this way.
She opened the door.
He stood there, the hallway light washing over him like a halo that belonged to someone far less broken. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, hair damp from rain, jaw tight like he'd been clenching it the entire walk over. He didn't speak at first; he simply looked at her—as if checking she was really there, really safe.
"You didn't answer your messages," he said finally.
"I wasn't in the mood to talk." Her voice came out softer than she meant, almost fragile.
His eyes scanned her face.
She hated how easily he could read her.
Without asking, he stepped inside. He always did that—moved in ways that made her forget she had the right to refuse him. Not because he forced her, but because he made the world quieter by being close.
"You left quickly," he said, closing the door behind him. "Too quickly."
She turned away. "I needed space."
"You needed space," he repeated, but there was something in his voice—something like a bruise he tried to hide. "From me?"
She didn't answer.
And that, to him, was an answer.
He walked toward her slowly, his presence filling the room in a way that made her heartbeat shift into something dangerous. The lamp behind him carved shadows across his face, deepening the lines around his mouth, making him look older… and somehow even more impossible to resist.
"Talk to me," he said. "Before I assume the worst."
She swallowed.
Her chest felt tight.
He was too close. Too warm. Too everything.
"I don't know what we're doing," she whispered.
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "We're doing what feels right."
"Is it right?"
Silence.
The kind that isn't empty—
the kind that weighs.
He reached out, brushing his thumb along her cheek. His palm was rough, warm, too gentle for someone who spent his life dealing with shadows and secrets. She leaned into his touch for a second—just one stolen second—before pulling back.
"That's exactly it," she said. "Every time you touch me, it feels right. And that's terrifying."
His gaze darkened, softening and sharpening at the same time. "You think I'm not terrified?"
She looked up. The truth in his eyes startled her. There was no façade tonight. No mask. No cold, controlled distance. Only a man who was trying—maybe failing—not to want someone he shouldn't want.
"I'm older," he said quietly. "I'm responsible. I should be the one who keeps distance. I know all of that."
"Then why don't you?"
He let out a low breath. "Because you look at me like I'm not the monster I've always been."
"You're not a monster."
He gave a humorless smile. "If you knew half the things I—"
"I don't care," she cut in. "Whatever your past is, whatever lines you crossed… they're not the ones I'm afraid of."
"Then what are you afraid of?"
"You," she whispered, barely audible. "And how you make me want things I shouldn't."
The confession hung between them like a struck chord.
He closed the distance. Slowly. Deliberately. Giving her time to stop him.
She didn't.
His fingers slid under her chin, tilting her face up. His voice dropped—low, rough, almost breaking.
"I want you," he said. "More than I have ever wanted anything I'm allowed to have. And that… that is the problem."
Her breath hitched.
His forehead rested against hers.
Her hands trembled.
"Tell me to leave," he murmured.
She didn't.
"Tell me to stop."
Still nothing.
He swallowed hard, as if that silence wounded him more deeply than any words could.
"I'm crossing a line," he whispered.
"So am I."
When she finally reached up and touched his chest, his breath faltered. Not with lust—though it lingered between them like heat—but with relief. With surrender. With something rawer, more dangerous.
His hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her gently, almost reverently. The world outside the room faded. Rain pattered softly against the windows. Her pulse throbbed beneath his fingertips.
"This is wrong," he said, voice trembling slightly.
"I know."
"And we can't stop."
She shook her head slowly. "I don't want to."
His lips brushed her forehead—soft, stolen, trembling—and she felt the shift inside him, something subtle but unmistakable: he wasn't fighting the feeling anymore.
He was yielding to it.
But he didn't kiss her mouth. Not yet.
Never rushed. Never careless.
Instead, he stepped back—barely an inch—but enough to breathe.
"I need you to understand something," he said, voice steadier now, deeper. "If we go any further… I won't be able to treat you casually. I won't be able to step away. It won't be a game or a distraction. I'll want all of you."
She felt her heartbeat skip. "What if I already want that?"
He froze.
Hope flickered across his expression like a light he didn't trust.
"You don't know what that means," he said softly.
"Then show me."
His breath left him in a quiet, broken exhale. "You're going to ruin me."
"Maybe I want to."
A soft laugh—hoarse, disbelieving—escaped him. "You don't even know the half of what you're saying."
"Then tell me."
He stepped closer again, slower than before, almost like approaching something sacred. His hand cupped her cheek; his thumb stroked the skin beneath her eye. His other hand hovered at her waist, not quite touching.
"I don't want to hurt you," he murmured.
"You won't."
"That's what they all say before they do."
She shook her head. "You're not like them."
"You don't know what I'm like when I want something too much."
Her breath caught. "Then show me that too."
His control cracked—briefly, beautifully. His fingers tightened at her waist. His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, not quite a kiss but dangerously close.
"You're killing me," he whispered again.
"Then die a little."
This time, he didn't step back.
He kissed her—not violently, not desperately, but in a way that felt like a confession he had been holding for months. His hand slid into her hair, pulling her closer. She melted into him, the world narrowing to breath, heat, touch.
The kiss deepened.
Slowly.
Then suddenly.
Her hands gripped his shirt, twisting the fabric. His mouth moved against hers with a restraint that felt more intimate than hunger. He was careful. Too careful. Terrifyingly gentle.
"Stop me," he breathed against her lips.
"I don't want to."
His forehead pressed to hers again. His chest rose and fell too quickly.
"We're going to make everything complicated," he said.
"Everything already is."
He let out a soft, helpless laugh. "You're right."
For a moment, they just stood there—breathing each other in, holding onto something neither of them had planned for, something neither of them could let go of now.
Then the world intruded.
A vibration.
His phone.
His expression shifted instantly—sharp, alert, the way he got when danger brushed too close.
He checked the screen.
His jaw tightened.
"What is it?" she asked.
"They found something." His voice dropped into that darker tone she recognized from the other side of his life—dangerous, cold, frighteningly efficient. "And it's about you."
Her blood ran cold.
"What do you mean?"
He pocketed the phone and took her hands, squeezing them just enough to anchor her. "Someone's been watching you. Tracking you. Longer than I thought."
Her stomach twisted. "Who?"
"I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out." His voice hardened. "And I'm going to make them regret it."
Fear crept through her veins—but not because of the threat.
Because of how quickly he shifted into a predator when she was in danger.
How protective he became.
How dangerous he was willing to be for her.
"What happens now?" she whispered.
He looked at her—deeply, intensely.
"Now," he said, "you stay close to me. Closer than before."
Her breath caught.
"Is that because of the danger?" she asked quietly.
He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering.
And when he answered, his voice was low… honest… unguarded.
"It's because I don't want to lose you."