Elena held the fresh glass in her hand. Just let it rest against her skin while she looked at him, like she was still deciding whether to throw it at his chest of drink it slowly just to irritate him.
She narrowed her eyes slightly.
"You mean before or after you stalked me with a Mustang and ruined several perfectly good nights of sleep?"
His mouth twitched like she amused him.
"Before."
She took a long sip, let the whiskey coat her tongue.
Then stepped one pace closer.
Not touching. Just enough to make it clear: she wasn't retreating anymore.
"Your memory's better than mine."
"I told you," he said, "You're not that easy to forget."
He hadn't looked away. Not once.
Elena held her glass near her lips, but she hadn't taken another sip. Her fingers were warm around it, her throat tighter than she wanted to admit.
The beat from the dance floor was still pulsing in her chest, slower now, deeper—like it had settled under her skin.
He took one step closer.
Not enough to crowd. Just enough to shift the air again. To let her feel the silence stretching between them.
His voice was low, but not soft.
"Still think this is a game?"
Elena raised an eyebrow, but didn't answer.
Because no—she didn't.
Not anymore.
And maybe that's what scared her most.
She didn't see it coming.
There was no shift in his expression, no obvious cue—just the smallest tilt in his stance, and then his hand was there. Low on her waist. Confident. Intentional. Like he'd done it in his head a thousand times before and was only now catching up to the moment.
His fingers settles just above her hip. Not tight or testing. Just... certain. The heat of his palm sank straight through the fabric, igniting something low in her belly that made her breath stutter, barely audible over the hum of music.
Every part in her body reacted at once—shoulders pulling tight, spine stretching tall, chest rising with a breath she didn't remember taking. Her pulse kicked, hard and hot, her nerves drawing a clean, electric line from where he touched her to the back of her neck.
She didn't move. Couldn't.
Because the fire under her skin wasn't panic. It was need.
The kind she didn't want. The kind she couldn't stop.
And the worst part?
She leaned into it. Barely—a fraction of weight, an instinctive shift—and it felt like everything inside her screamed yes even as her jaw tightened against it.
Her hand twitched around the glass, fingers flexing like she needed something to hold onto that wasn't him.
She wasn't sure if she hated him more for touching her without asking—or for how badly she didn't want him to stop.
The head crawled up her spine, curled behind her ribs. She swore he could feel it through her shirt, the way her chest rose tighter with every breath.
Still, she didn't look at him.
Not yet.
Instead, she took another sip of whiskey, like it would cool something that had already caught flame.
Then finally—calm, sharp, measured—she said without turning,
"If this is how you apologize, you're doing a terrible job."
His hand didn't move.
His voice was just behind her ear, low and warm.
"I'm not sorry."
That did it.
She turned to face him fully—slow, eyes blazing.
"Of course you're not."
Her words hung there, sharp and hot, but he didn't flinch.
He just looked at her, gaze steady, hand still resting at her waist like it wasn't up for negotiation.
Then, voice low, like he wasn't speaking for the room—just for her—
"You didn't want sorry."
His eyes scanned her face slowly—mouth, jaw, the tension in her shoulders.
"You wanted real."
The words hit harder than she wanted to admit, and she felt them settle somewhere deep—low and unwelcome.
Her brows pulled tight. She turned her head just slightly, chin lifted in challenge.
"You think you know what i want?"
His hand didn't move. His voice didn't shift.
"I think you want someone who doesn't lie to you."
She scoffed under her breath, shaking her head.
"Bullshit."
But it didn't sound as sharp as she wanted it to.
And she knew it.
So did he.
Her heart was racing now, not from adrenaline—but drom confusion. Frustration. A pull she couldn't place.
She couldn't think straight.
The noise of the club had dimmes to a low throb in the back of her skull, and all she could focus on was the warmth of his hand and the stillness in his eyes.
Why did he look at her like that?
Why did it feel like he saw her—like he'd already stripped past every version of her she tried to wear in public?
Her chest rose tighter with each breath, the whiskey curling heat into her veins, and she hated that too.
Maybe it was the liquor.
Maybe it was his stupid, impossible calm.
Or those eyes—gray with that rim of brown like a storm held in place.
But something flipped.
Just like that.
Her grip on control loosened.
Not all the way. But enough.
Her eyes dropped—just for a second—to his mouth.
And that was the moment she knew:
She wasn't winning this.