Then he stepped slightly into the spill of moonlight.
Not dramatic.
Not rushing toward me.
Calm.
Victor.
Relief slipped out of me before I could stop it — sharp, irritated relief that felt too close to vulnerability.
"You scared me," I muttered, pressing a hand briefly to my chest.
"I didn't mean to."
His voice was low and measured.
Too steady for this hour. Too steady for a man standing alone in a dark kitchen past midnight.
He leaned one shoulder against the counter, arms loose at his sides, looking infuriatingly composed
He just watched me.
"You seemed very open tonight," he said calmly.
Not accusing.
Observing.
I grabbed a glass from the cabinet, keeping my back partially turned to him. "It was therapy."
"Yes." His voice was measured. Thoughtful. "I noticed."
Of course he did.
"You like him?" he asked.
The question was too direct for midnight.
I turned slowly, glass in hand. "That's not your concern."
"At least he doesn't pretend I don't exist after," I added before I could stop myself.
His jaw tightened slightly.
He stepped closer.
Not dramatic. Not rushing.
Just one controlled step that shortened the space between us.
"You think he sees you?" he asked quietly.
The way he said it wasn't mocking.
It was probing.
I swallowed. "I think he listens."
Victor's gaze dropped — briefly — to my mouth.
Then back to my eyes.
"That's not the same thing."
The air shifted.
I felt it in my chest. In my stomach. That familiar heat that always came before I made a bad decision.
"You don't want me, Victor," I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. "You just don't want anyone else to."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he stepped closer again.
Close enough that I could smell him — soap, warmth, something unmistakably him.
"You think that's what this is?" he murmured.
My pulse jumped.
He reached out slowly.
Not grabbing.
Not claiming.
Just brushing his fingers lightly against the side of my wrist.
The contact was barely there.
But my body reacted instantly.
Heat.
Memory.
My breath thinned.
"You shouldn't," I whispered.
He didn't remove his hand.
"I know you," he said quietly.
The words slid under my skin.
"You don't."
"I know how you tense when you're about to run," he continued, his thumb grazing just slightly over my pulse point. "I know how you pretend you don't want something until it's almost gone."
My heart was beating so hard I was sure he could feel it.
"You don't know me," I repeated, but the words came out weaker this time.
He stepped even closer.
My back brushed the counter.
He didn't trap me.
He didn't cage me in.
He just stood there — near enough that leaving would mean choosing to leave.
"That therapist," he said softly. "He makes you feel steady."
"Yes."
"But not wanted."
The word hit.
He leaned down slightly — not kissing, not touching my face — just lowering himself enough that his voice brushed my cheek.
"I make you feel wanted."
My breath hitched.
Damn him.
He wasn't wrong.
His fingers slid from my wrist to my forearm.
Slow.
Testing.
Waiting for resistance.
I should have pulled away.
I didn't.
"You burn when you're with me," he murmured. "You don't feel invisible."
Invisible.
The word cracked something inside me.
Because that was it.
That had always been it.
I felt his hand move up, lightly grazing my elbow, my upper arm.
My skin felt too sensitive.
My thoughts too slow.
"You like that I see the parts you don't show anyone else," he continued quietly.
"That's not true," I breathed.
He tilted his head slightly.
"No?"
His hand moved to my waist.
Not gripping.
Resting.
My stomach tightened.
"I see the hunger," he said. "The way you need to be chosen."
Chosen.
God.
My hands flattened against the counter behind me.
My body leaned forward before I could stop it.
He noticed.
Of course he did.
A faint, controlled smile touched his mouth.
"That's what he doesn't understand," Victor said softly. "He sees your wounds. I see your fire."
His hand tightened slightly at my waist.
And for one terrifying second —
I almost closed the distance.
Almost pressed my mouth to his.
Almost let the heat swallow the doubt.
"You want me," he said, low and certain.
My lips parted.
He leaned closer.
Not rushing.
Giving me time to refuse.
Giving me time to choose.
And that was the problem.
Because I was choosing.
My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
Just slightly.
His breath changed.
Victory flickered in his eyes.
"You don't want him," he whispered near my mouth. "You want someone who consumes you."
That snapped something.
Consumes you.
Not loves you.
Not stands beside you.
Consumes.
My fingers loosened.
His hand slid higher — thumb brushing just under my ribs.
"You don't know anything about me," I said, but my voice trembled.
"I know you chase men who make you feel uncertain," he replied quietly. "Because certainty feels like indifference."
The words landed too cleanly.
Too accurately.
I pushed against his chest.
He didn't move far.
Just enough to show he could.
"You don't get to psychoanalyze me in the dark," I snapped.
"I'm not analyzing you."
"You are."
"I'm recognizing you."
Recognition.
That word again.
As if he owned the blueprint of my damage.
"As if you know where it comes from," I said, my voice rising.
His expression shifted.
Serious now.
Focused.
"I know it didn't start with me."
My chest tightened.
He saw it.
The crack.
The hesitation.
And he pressed.
"You don't fall for emotionally unavailable men by accident," he said quietly. "You learned early that love doesn't come when you ask for it."
The kitchen felt smaller.
Colder.
"You think you know my childhood?" I asked, shaking.
"I think," he said, his voice lowering, "that you learned to beg for attention from men who ignored you."
That did it.
The word beg.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't cruel.
But it felt like a blade.
My palm moved before my mind did.
Whap
The sound of the slap cracked through the kitchen.
His head turned slightly with the impact.
Silence followed.
My hand burned.
My breathing was ragged.
Victor slowly turned back to face me.
A red mark bloomed across his cheek.
His eyes were no longer seductive.
No longer victorious.
They were steady.
"You don't get to tell me who I am," I whispered.
He didn't touch his face.
Didn't retaliate.
Didn't look shocked.
"You don't get to say I beg," I continued, my voice breaking now. "You don't get to reduce me to something desperate."
His jaw flexed once.
"I wasn't reducing you."
"You were."
His gaze held mine.
"I was telling you the truth."
My chest heaved.
"You think he sees you," he said again, but softer now. "You think he understands what you are."
"I am not a thing."
"No," he agreed quietly.
A pause.
Then—
"Just be careful, Alyssa."
There was no seduction left in his voice now.
No possession.
Just something restrained.
"Of him?" I demanded.
His eyes darkened.
"No."
A beat.
"Of yourself."
The words settled heavily between us.
I felt exposed.
Stripped.
Seen in a way that felt invasive.
He stepped back then.
Space returns slowly.
"You don't want me," I said again, but it sounded weaker now.
He didn't argue.
He didn't confirm.
He simply looked at me for a long moment.
Then he turned and walked past me.
Close enough that I felt his warmth.
But he didn't touch me again.
Upstairs, a door closed quietly.
The kitchen felt enormous.
Empty.
My palm still stung.
My body still hummed with what almost happened.
I leaned against the counter, my legs suddenly unsteady.
I hated that part of me had leaned in.
Hated that part of me still wanted him to come back down the stairs.
I exhaled slowly.
Relief mixed with irritation.
And something dangerously close to doubt.
Maybe he was wrong.
Maybe he wasn't.
And that terrified me more than the slap ever could