"I don't want anything from you," I lied smoothly.
"Right," he said, not believing for a second.
And sohow, that ticked off.
"You don't know ," I said, standing up and pacing toward the window. "You just show up, drop so flirty, death-threat-adjacent line, and expect what? For to fall for you?"
"No," he said simply. "I expect you to be exactly like this. Sharp. Distrustful. Alive."
I turned to face him. "And why the hell does that interest you?"
He looked at , silver eyes unreadable. There was sothing predatory in the calm way he watched —like a lion deciding whether it was hungry or just curious.
Then he spoke.
"I already told you—I like fit, hot blondes. You're both."
I raised an eyebrow. "So, what? You fell for at first sight? That's not love. That's lust."
His lips curved into sothing too dark to be a smile. "Lust, love—every man calls it sothing different."
He stood, casually, like his words weren't about to rattle . "One guy kisses and hugs his girl and says that's how he shows love. Another spends every night in her bed, never leaves, and calls it love—while the world calls it lust. One's approved by society, the other isn't. But does it change what the man feels? No. It's just their way of showing love."
"And what's your version?" I asked, arms crossed.
Michael tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "I like the part where we lose control in the heat."
He paused, and when he looked at again, it was with a boldness that made my pulse skip.
"But I'm not here to play gas with hearts, Felicia. I'm not wired for it. I like what I like. And right now, I like you. That's not a trick or a line. It's just... the truth."
My throat felt dry. My instincts scread to run, to laugh it off, to brush past the heat in his tone like it didn't affect .
But I wasn't made of stone either.
Still—I smirked.
"God, you're such a perv," I muttered, pushing past him toward the sink. "I bet you read erotica with a straight face too."
"Only the good stuff," he replied behind , deadpan.
I rolled my eyes—but I couldn't help the small grin tugging at my lips.
"You're impossible," I said, grabbing a glass from the sink and filling it with water. My back was to him, but I could feel his presence like static—too close for comfort, but not close enough to push away.
"Not the first ti I've heard that," he said. "Usually right before things get interesting."
I took a sip, hoping the cool water would ease the heat building in my chest. It didn't.
"Do you always stalk won in their kitchens after breaking into their lives uninvited?"
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, like he had all the ti in the world. "Only the ones who steal my attention and refuse to give it back."
I shot him a look over my shoulder. "You say that like it's romantic."
"It's not," he admitted with a shrug. "It's obsessive. But I've never been one for halfway feelings."
My fingers tightened around the glass. Damn him. He was too honest in the most unsettling ways.
"And what exactly do you want from ?" I asked, turning fully now.
He t my gaze, his voice low, but steady. "I want the truth. From you. Even if it's ugly. Even if it's sharp enough to cut ."
That stopped . Because I wasn't sure anyone had ever said that to before. Not like that. Not aning it.
And it scared more than I liked to admit.
"You're dangerous," I said.
Michael's expression didn't change, but sothing flickered in his eyes. "So are you."
The air between us felt taut. Like one wrong word would snap it—and one right one might set it on fire.
"I'm not good at this," I said quietly.
He took a step closer, slow, deliberate. "Neither am I. But I don't think this—" he gestured to the space between us, "—was ant to be simple."
I held his gaze, trying to keep my expression neutral. Failing.
"You're not making this easy."
"I'm not trying to."
A silence stretched out—thick, but not uncomfortable.
Then he spoke again, voice softer this ti. "If I cross a line, say the word. I'll back off."
That... caught off guard. Because despite the intensity, the cocky remarks, the heat—there was respect buried underneath. Like he saw , and didn't want to push farther than I allowed.
I studied him for a long mont.
Then I nodded, almost reluctantly. "Okay."
"Okay what, okay?" he asked, and sohow that flicked a switch in . God, can't he just take the hint?
"It ans I'm ready to date you, or et you, or—whatever. Let's get dinner tonight or sothing. Just go now," I snapped, avoiding his eyes as I moved toward the door, pretending like the ground didn't feel like it was shifting beneath .
Damn, he's hot. No, no, no—he's dangerous, I reminded myself as I pulled out my phone, pretending to check my schedule. Anything to hide how off-balance I felt.
Besides, all n are like this. Slowly, that last thought settled like lead in my chest.
I blinked hard as old mories surged—two tis, two near-assaults, saved only by luck or so twist of fate. And ever since, I'd never let myself drop my guard around a guy like this. Not like this.
He's hot, and he wants to do sothing, and I wouldn't be able to say no, my mind whispered. No. Stop it. Think.
Knock.
A sudden knock snapped out of my spiral as Max—of course, Max—was already standing at the threshold.
"Didn't I say we are done for now?" I asked, crossing my arms tightly.
"You're fidgeting," he said flatly. "You nervous?"
"I'm not—ugh." I sighed and leaned back against the wall, frustrated with everything—him, myself, the storm in my chest.
He took a small step forward. "You never told your na, you know."
I froze.
Had I not? I must have. Didn't I?
My lips parted, then closed again.
Did I give it too easily? Did I decide to let him in too fast?
But before I could answer, I realized—maybe it wasn't about control anymore. Maybe it was just about being real.
"Felicia," I said softly. "My na is Felicia Hardy."
He smiled.
"Nice to et you, Felicia," he said, like it was the first ti.
*******
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