You press a hand to his chest, half teasing, half testing. “Relax, Riorson. I’m not made of glass.” His fingers wrap around your wrist before you can pull away—firm, slow, deliberate.

“No,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to your lips. “You’re made of every fucking distraction I can’t afford.”

Your heart stutters. His hand doesn’t move.

“You keep looking at me like that,” you say quietly, “and someone’s going to notice.” “They already have.” His thumb drags along your pulse point. “But let them look. Let them wonder.”

You swallow hard. “And you?” “What about me?” “Are you still pretending this isn’t something?”

A beat.

Then his mouth is at your ear, breath hot. “I stopped pretending the first time you said my name like that.”

You blink. “Like what?” He smiles—sharp, slow, dangerous. “Like you’d let me ruin you if I asked nicely.”