She didn't say anything. Didn't move.
Her eyes were still locked on his mouth, and she hated that she hadn't meant to look—but now she couldn't stop.
He didn't speak either. Just watched her.
Not like he was waiting. Like he was watching her decide.
The music pulsed around them, distant and low. The rest of the world moved in blur and shadow, but this space—**this exact pocket of air between them—**was still.
She shifted her weight slightly. His hand moved with her.
Not to pull her closer.
Just to stay.
The heat from his palm sank deeper now, as if her body finally stopped resisting. Her breath came softer, shallower, and he noticed.
Of course he did.
His free hand lifted—slow and smooth, no pressure—and she thought for a second he might touch her face. Might brush her hair back like some cliché.
But he didn't.
His fingers stopped just short of her cheek.
Hovering. Waiting.
He was so close she could see the flecks of brown in the grey of his eyes. The faintest shadow of stubble on his jaw. The curve of his mouth—steady, unreadable.
She hated how calm he looked.
How she felt anything but.
"I don't like this," she said, voice low, raw.
His hand didn't move.
"But you're not walking away," he murmured.
And he was right.
She wasn't.
Her pulse was pounding in her ears. Her lips parted like a reply might come—but it didn't.
His fingers hovered near her cheek. Still waiting.
Elena's eyes didn't leave his.
Her breathing shallow, like her body didn't trust the air anymore.
Then—he moved.
Just enough to tilt his head. To bring his mouth closer to hers—close enough that she felt his breath, warm and slow, against her lips.
Still no contact. Just tension. Just proximity.
And then—his thumb brushed the edge of her hip. Barely a shift. Just the smallest drag over fabric, like he was memorizing it.
Her stomach tightened instantly.
Her kneed threatened to give, and her grip on the glass faltered for a heartbeat before she caught it.
Before she could even breathe, his hand was on her cheek.
Smooth. Unapologetic.
His fingers brushed along her jaw, slow and certain, the backs of his knuckled gliding upward like he was already halfway through a decision he'd never say out loud.
Elena went still.
Not frozen—charged.
Every muscle locked into place as the warmth of his skin sank deep under hers, dragging heat across every nerve it passed.
And then he leaned in.
Close—closer than before—his mouth near her ear now, the space between them barely a breath wide.
She could feel him speak before she heard the words.
"Let yourself want it."
Just that.
Soft. Steady. Real.
It hit her like a spark to dry wood—no flame yet, just the threat of it.
She didn't flinch. Didn't pull back.
Instead, her hand lifted—slow, cautious—and curled around his.
Not to stop him. To feel it.
The shape of his hand against her skin. The heat of it. The steadiness.
Her fingers wrapped over his knuckles like she was trying to understand why something so simple could make her entire body feel like it was coming undone from the inside out.
His palm was warm. Solid.
It made the air feel too thick to breathe.
He looked her in the eyes and she could see a small spark in the corners of it.
Her chest rose with a shallow inhale she didn't mean to take. Her head started to spin—not from the whiskey, not entirely—but from the way his closeness filled every inch of her awareness.
She tried to focus on his eyes.
On the space between them.
On anything but the deep, aching heat starting to spread low in her stomach.
But she couldn't.
Not when his thumb brushed so gently against her cheek that her knees nearly gave.
Not when her pulse was thundering in places she didn't even know had a rhythm.
Her mouth parted—instinct, not intention—and still, he didn't kiss her.
She hated him for that.
Hated how her body leaned in on its own, how her skin craved more pressure, more friction, more of him.
She wanted him to move.
To do something.
To take control so she didn't have to admit she already wanted it.
Wanted him.
He smiled.
She saw something shifting in his eyes.
Gone was the cool detachment. The teasing restraint. The smug, unreadable mask he wore so well.
What looked back at her now was undeniably real.
There was heat, yes.
But not just hunger.
She saw something slower.
Focused
Intentional.
Like he'd waited for this—not to win, but to watch her arrive.
His gaze held hers with a quiet kind of pressure, like he was memorizing here as she was right now—flushed, breath caught, walls finally cracked open.
And then—barely above the music, barely above a whisper—he said it.
"There you go."
The words weren't smug.
They were soft.
And somehow, that made them worse.
Because there was something in his eyes that wanted her.
But didn't need her to admit it.
It was enough that she finally felt it.
And he saw it.
All of it.