It’s how I felt on the final step of the cellar staircase—like one little push from Lukas is all it would take for me to forever lose my balance.
Then Lukas sets down his glass.
The clink of it against the counter rings out like a gunshot in the silence. He takes mine from my grasp gently and sets it next to his. He turns to face me again, blocking out the light.
His hand, when it drifts up to cup my jaw, is rough and warm, spanning from my chin to my cheekbone with room to spare.
I feel so small in his grip. Fragile. Breakable.
His thumb passes roughly across my lower lip. It’s a slow, proprietary drag. Like he owns everything he’s touching.
I don’t dare move. He’s deciding something. I can see it happening behind those storm-cloud eyes.
I have no idea what that something might be.
