Harper's POV
His voice doesn’t waver. He’s still telling a story, still smiling, still talking about how easy it is to predict people’s behavior when you understand what they want. His hand rests higher now, just above my knee, warm and heavy, a quiet pressure that says he thinks he has every right to be there.
And the worst part is how calmly he does it. As if touching me in public, without consent, while eating dinner, is just part of the service he expects.
He moves back, and his hand slips free as he takes another bite of his food, and I relax, and go to eat again, but it's brief.
He doesn’t stop.
Even with the food in front of us, even with the low hum of conversation filling the restaurant like a veil, his attention turns back to me with a heat that has nothing to do with conve
