"I don't want anything from you," I lied smoothly.
"Right," he said, not believing me for a second.
And somehow, that ticked me off.
"You don't know me," I said, standing up and pacing toward the window. "You just show up, drop some flirty, death-threat-adjacent line, and expect what? For me 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 me, silver eyes unreadable. There was something predatory in the calm way he watched me—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 me at first sight? That's not love. That's lust."
His lips curved into something too dark to be a smile. "Lust, love—every man calls it something different."
He stood, casually, like his words weren't about to rattle me. "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 me again, it was with a boldness that made my pulse skip.
"But I'm not here to play games 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 screamed to run, to laugh it off, to brush past the heat in his tone like it didn't affect me.
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 me, 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 time 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 women in their kitchens after breaking into their lives uninvited?"
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, like he had all the time 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 me?" I asked, turning fully now.
He met 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 me."
That stopped me. Because I wasn't sure anyone had ever said that to me before. Not like that. Not meaning it.
And it scared me more than I liked to admit.
"You're dangerous," I said.
Michael's expression didn't change, but something 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 meant 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 time. "If I cross a line, say the word. I'll back off."
That... caught me off guard. Because despite the intensity, the cocky remarks, the heat—there was respect buried underneath. Like he saw me, and didn't want to push farther than I allowed.
I studied him for a long moment.
Then I nodded, almost reluctantly. "Okay."
"Okay what, okay?" he asked, and somehow that flicked a switch in me. God, can't he just take the hint?
"It means I'm ready to date you, or meet you, or—whatever. Let's get dinner tonight or something. 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 me.
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 men are like this. Slowly, that last thought settled like lead in my chest.
I blinked hard as old memories surged—two times, two near-assaults, saved only by luck or some 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 something, and I wouldn't be able to say no, my mind whispered. No. Stop it. Think.
Knock.
A sudden knock snapped me 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 me your name, 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 name is Felicia Hardy."
He smiled.
"Nice to meet you, Felicia," he said, like it was the first time.
*******
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