Zayne didn’t reach for me this time. Not when we stepped into his house. Not when the door shut behind us with a quiet, final click. Not when I stopped just inside the threshold, unsure whether to sit, stand, or completely fall apart. But I felt him. That steady, charged awareness lingered between us—low and constant, like standing too close to something powerful you couldn’t quite see but instinctively respected. My hands were still shaking. I tried to still them, curling my fingers into the fabric of my sleeves, but it didn’t help. My body felt wrong—tight, fragile, like one wrong movement would send everything splintering.
“Sit.”
Zayne’s voice cut cleanly through the noise in my head. Not harsh. Not soft. Controlled. Grounded. I moved without thinking, lowering myself onto the edge of
