The room feels too small. You’ve both been circling the same words for minutes, voices low, tension threading between every syllable. Tate takes a step forward — then another. He doesn’t look angry anymore, just... tired. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up. For a heartbeat, it’s like gravity tilts; he leans in until you can feel the warmth of his breath. The world holds its breath with you. Then he freezes — halfway. His fingers twitch like he’s fighting the urge to close the distance. His voice is barely a whisper: “I shouldn’t.” But he doesn’t move back, either. He pushes you to the wall and then traps you.