He pulled back—just far enough that their mouths separated by the thinnest breath of air. Just far enough that she could see his eyes: patient, utterly certain. No triumph. No mockery. Only that quiet, devastating focus that made her feel seen in a way she hadn't been in years.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked.
The question landed like a stone in still water.
Every instinct she'd spent a decade honing—the teacher, the professional, the woman who had built walls of competence and distance—screamed yes.
Say yes. End this. Salvage what's left of your life before it burns.
But the truth rose faster than the fear.
"NO!" she breathed. "Gods help me… no."
Something flickered across his face—relief, maybe, or recognition. Something softer than victory. He didn't smile like a conqueror. He smiled like a man who'd just been given permission to breathe.
"Then stop thinking," he said quietly. "Just for tonight. Just for right now. Let me prove what I promised."
