Dane's POV:
I stand there for a moment, just looking at her.
Too long.
Long enough that it starts to hurt.
Her scent is everywhere — warm skin, something sweet, something soft — wrapping around my ribs like a hand.
And at the same time, it makes me want to recoil.
Like she's pressing on a bruise that hasn't healed and probably never will.
She's making everything so damn difficult.
I want to snap.
I want to punish her.
I want to say something , I want to demand answers she has no obligation to give me.
And how pathetic is that? Knowing I forfeited the right to ask when I walked away.
Knowing I did this — and still wanting to rage at her like she owes me anything.
Maybe she does.
It's me.
It's us.
She looks at me — really looks — and I see it clearly in her eyes.
A challenge.
Come on, Dane.
Say it.
Break.
I can't.
Not without doing something worse.
The pasta is already cold.
The fork feels heavy in my hand.
