The game had shifted.
Branson Drowing knew it the moment he saw her sitting alone in the café again, notebook in hand, eyes flicking toward the door every few seconds like a moth drawn compulsively to flame. She was waiting for him, even if she didn’t want to admit it. Her entire body had given her away—the tension in her shoulders, the shallow breaths, the restless way she traced her finger over the rim of her cup.
She wanted him to approach.
And that was precisely why he didn’t.
Control was about timing. Not too soon, not too late. He allowed her to ache in the silence of his absence, to feel the sharp edge of disappointment when he walked past her without a word. Desire grew in the void. Anticipation thrived in restraint. By withholding, he had already tightened the invisible leash.
