He steps closer—not invading, not quite—but enough that the space between you changes. Narrows.

“Look at me,” he says, quieter now.

You already are.

But something in the way he says it makes you straighten slightly, your attention sharpening without meaning to.

His eyes move over your face, searching. Measuring again. Not unkind—but not gentle either.

“People will watch us tomorrow,” he says. “They’ll look for cracks. Hesitation. Distance.”

His hand lifts—slowly enough that you could step back if you wanted.

You don’t.

His fingers brush lightly against your wrist.

Not a grip.

Just contact.

A test.

“You can’t flinch like that,” he murmurs.

You hadn’t even realized you did.

Heat rises to your face—more from the awareness than the touch itself.

“I’ll adjust,” you say.

His gaze flicks up to yours again.

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly—

His hand shifts, not away, but slightly higher, guiding your arm—not forceful, just precise—until your hand rests lightly against his chest.

Your breath catches, just for a second.

“Then start now,” he says.