Shawn’s back was still pressed against the far glass wall, but his body had begun to betray him in ways he couldn’t hide.
His breathing came in sharp, uneven pulls — not the controlled rhythm I was used to, but something fractured. Each inhale hitched. Each exhale trembled. The veins along his forearms stood out as his hands clenched and unclenched against the glass behind him, like his nervous system was firing conflicting commands.
I stood frozen in the center of the room, heart hammering, thighs still slick from the memory of his body against mine moments ago.
“Shawn,” I whispered.
His head snapped up.
His eyes were wild — pupils blown wide, the usual sharp control shattered. Sweat had begun to bead at his temples despite the perfectly climate-controlled apartment. A muscle in his
