Page 124 of For the Plot

“Exactly.”

I take his hand, and he pulls me into him, his arms settling around my waist. I rest my hands on his chest and let myself lean in. Let myself be held.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper.

“And yet you’re not running.”

I smile. He holds me tighter. “You were chaos that night. Sitting here, venting about your ex, throwing back drinks with Maya like the world had betrayed you.”

“It had,” I mutter.

“And I was the idiot who thought he could sit through one drink without getting involved.”

“You couldn’t resist me.”

“No,” he says. “I couldn’t. You were this perfect storm, funny, wild, pissed off, and wearing leggings that made it impossible to think straight.”

I snort against his shoulder.

“But you know what hit me the hardest?” His voice softens. “It wasn’t how sexy you were. It was how sad you were.” My breath catches. “You looked like you’d been shattered by someone who didn’t know how to hold something that bright.”

He leans back, framing my face with his hands. “And all I could think was,fuck, I want to be the man who does.”

I swallow hard. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“Then I’m finally doing this right.”

The music changes, the next song slow and aching. He sways with me in silence, and I let myself breathe him in. Eventually, he leads me back to our table but this time, he slides into the booth and tugs me gently into his lap.

“Really?”

He tilts his head. “Don’t pretend like you don’t like this.”

I straddle him, arms around his neck, knees framing his hips. His hands settle on my thighs, hot and sure.

“I like you like this,” I say. “Soft. Open.”

He smiles. “You’re the only one who ever saw through the rest of it.”

“You’re not that good at hiding.”

“No,” he agrees. “Not with you.”

We sit there like that for a long moment, quiet and entangled.

Then I whisper, “You scare me.” His brow furrows. “You could break me.”

“I know,” he replies, voice hoarse. “But I never will.”

I study his face, every line and shadow, every scar I want to memorize. “I believe you.”

He kisses me like a man who’s been waiting his whole life to finally do it right.

“I love you,” he murmurs. “So fucking much.”

“I love you too.”

“You were the first woman who ever made me nervous,” he says, voice low.