He reaches out and takes my hand – only then do I realise it’s shaking.
My voice is barely a whisper. “What about Jessica?”
His brows pull together in confusion. “What about her?”
I swallow hard. “Do you love her?”
He doesn’t answer right away, and it makes my chest squeeze. So I keep going, because I have to.
“Everything I’ve heard about her… it makes it seem like she means more to you than I ever can.” I look away, down at the tiles like they might save me from my embarrassment. “And those two weeks you disappeared… that was because of her, wasn’t it?”
He doesn’t speak right away, but his fingers tighten around mine.
“Yes,” he finally says.
I nod slowly. I already knew, but it still hurts. “Okay. That’s fi—”
“I don’t love her, Emilia.”
His voice cuts through my words, firm and certain.
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“I never have.” He leans in just slightly, like he needs me to really hear him. “I’m not sure where you got that idea, but I’m
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sorry I ever made you think that at all,” He shifts on the stool, clearly uncomfortable, but keeps on going. “If you ever want to know more about her – about what happened – you can ask me. I won’t lie to you.”
I shake my head quickly. “No. I don’t. I don’t want you to say anything that makes you uncomfortable.”
He narrows his eyes a little, studying me like he can to see straight through my load of crap. Then, almost amused, he says, “You know you can’t look me in the eye when you lie, right?”
I blink.
“I’m not lying,” I mumble, but my voice wavers just enough to betray me.
—
He smiles – barely – but it’s there. “You are. But it’s okay. I just wish you’d trust me enough to ask.”
I open my mouth, but he doesn’t let me speak.
“Every time we get close, you pull back. Five steps, maybe ten. Like you’re afraid I’m going to turn into Zane.”
“I’m not-”
“I’m not him, Emilia.” His voice softens, but every word lands. “Caring about you doesn’t mean I want to control you. Worrying about you doesn’t mean I want to trap you. I’m not here to cage you – I’m here to stand beside you. To hold your hand while you become exactly who you want to be.”
He looks at me like he’s waiting for something to click. “You don’t have to shut me out just to stay in control.”
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“Zane-”
“No.” His jaw tightens. “Don’t give him that much power.”
“|—”
“I’m not him,” he says again. Then, slower. “I’m. Not. Him.”
He stands, closing the space between us like gravity pulled him forward. One hand wraps around my arm not rough, just grounding. And suddenly we’re chest to chest, the air between us gone. My heart stutters.
“When you look at me,” he murmurs, “it’s like you’re still using him as a yardstick. Like he set the rules and now I’m being measured by the damage he left behind.”
His hand grazes my cheek, a featherlight touch that makes me forget how to breathe. “But I’m not him. I’ll never be him. Not even if you begged me to.”
It takes everything in me not to run. But I don’t. I stay rooted, heart pounding. “You don’t know that,” I say quietly.
His lips twitch, and suddenly his whole face softens. The dimple on his left cheek appears, and his blue eyes somehow look even brighter – like I just said something that mattered to him.
“I do.”
Something within me shifts. Breaks. Mends.
I don’t even think. I just lean in and press my lips against his.
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His response is instant.
—
One second, I’m kissing him like I’ve been starving for it- because I have and the next, his hand fists in my hair, pulling just enough to make me gasp. He swallows the sound with a kiss that’s deeper, rougher, like I’ve just lit a fuse he’s been desperate to keep under control.
Then control shatters.
He walks me back until the counter hits my lower back, and the chill of it is nothing compared to the fire spreading under my skin. His mouth is on mine like he’s claiming something, like he‘ s making a promise with every breath. Like he’s daring me to pretend I don’t want this as badly as he does.
His other hand grips my waist – firm, possessive, fingers. sinking into me like he’s trying to ground himself. There’s no hesitation in his touch. No question. Just a quiet command: You’re not running. Not this time.
“You,” he mutters against my lips, his voice dark and wrecked, “taste like spice.”
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