Almost!!!!
897 Words
The music gets louder.
Or maybe my pulse does.
Ian hasn’t moved.
He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the noise, through the velvet, through the whiskey still sitting low in my throat.
“You shouldn’t care,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t say I care.”
“You implied it.”
He studies me.
“I implied I don’t like watching you entertain men who see you as leverage.”
“I wasn’t entertaining him.”
“You were tolerating him.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is when he thinks it’s not.”
The jealousy isn’t loud.
It’s controlled.
That makes it sharper.
“You’re not my protector,” I say.
“I know.”
“Then stop acting like one.”
“I’m not protecting you,” he replies evenly. “I’m protecting what’s mine.”
The words land.
Hard.
I go still.
“What did you just say?”
He doesn’t backtrack.
“You heard me.”
“I am not yours.”
“I didn’t say you were owned.”
“Then clarify.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“I don’t stake claim easily, Sasha.”
The way he says my name feels like pressure.
“And you think you’ve staked one?” I ask, voice lower now.
He steps closer.
Not touching.
But the distance is razor-thin.
“I think,” he says quietly, “you push me away publicly and expect me not to feel it.”
The music blurs into background static.
“I did what was necessary.”
“You did what was safe.”
“And you think this is safe?” I challenge.
“Being here? Watching another man look at you like opportunity?”
His eyes flicker—dark, steady.
“No,” he says softly. “It’s not.”
Something shifts inside my chest.
“You walked away,” I remind him.
“You told me to.”
“And you listened.”
“Yes.”
That one word holds accusation and restraint at the same time.
“You’re angry,” I say.
“No.”
“You are.”
His voice drops.
“I’m not angry. I’m disappointed.”
That hurts more than if he’d shouted.
“I don’t owe you vulnerability,” I say.
“No,” he agrees. “But don’t pretend you don’t want it.”
The air between us tightens.
I hate that he sees through me.
“I don’t need anyone,” I say.
“Stop saying that like it’s strength.”
My breath catches.
“Careful,” I warn.
“No.”
That single word isn’t loud.
But it’s firm.
“You don’t get to cut me out to stabilize headlines and then expect me to stand quietly in the background while someone else steps into your space.”
“I didn’t ask you to stand anywhere.”
“Exactly.”
Silence.
The bass vibrates beneath our feet.
“You’re not collateral,” I say suddenly.
The admission slips before I can stop it.
His gaze sharpens.
“No?”
“No.”
“Then what am I?”
I swallow.
Dangerous question.
“You’re…” I hesitate.
Risk.
He waits.
“You’re complicated.”
A slow exhale leaves him.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
His hand moves.
Not to grab.
Not to pull.
Just to brush lightly against my wrist.
Electric.
Intentional.
My breath falters.
“This,” he says quietly, fingers barely grazing skin, “is not business.”
The contact is minimal.
But my body reacts like it’s not.
“Don’t,” I whisper.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make this harder.”
“I’m not the one pretending.”
His thumb presses slightly more firmly now.
Still controlled.
Still deliberate.
But the restraint is thinner.
“You said you don’t stake claim easily,” I murmur.
“I don’t.”
“And yet?”
“And yet I don’t step aside quietly either.”
The tension snaps—just slightly.
I step closer instead of away.
It’s a mistake.
Or maybe it’s not.
His hand shifts from my wrist to my waist.
Not possessive.
Not aggressive.
Steady.
The world narrows.
Music fades.
Noise blurs.
“You’re playing with fire,” I say.
“No,” he replies softly. “I’m standing in it.”
My control cracks for half a second.
I lean in.
Close enough that my lips are inches from his.
Not kissing.
Almost.
His breath mixes with mine.
“If I let this happen,” I say quietly, “you don’t get to walk away.”
His eyes don’t waver.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
That does it.
The certainty.
The steadiness.
The refusal to retreat.
My fingers tighten slightly against his jacket.
For a second—
I almost close the distance.
Almost.
Then—
A flash.
Camera light.
Sharp.
Blinding.
Both of us freeze.
A man across the room lowers his phone.
Media.
My pulse drops.
Ian’s hand leaves my waist instantly.
Professional distance restored.
Too late.
The damage is done.
“Now,” he says quietly, gaze steady on the man with the phone, “it’s going to get worse.”
The explosion wasn’t a kiss.
It was exposure.
And this time—
Neither of us were prepared.
- Writer
