It’s late, the beach house is quiet except for the low hum of the waves outside. You’re sitting on the couch with Conrad, the kind of silence that’s full but not uncomfortable. He leans back, one arm stretched over the backrest behind you, his other hand lazily twirling the neck of a bottle he never opened.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you tease, shifting to meet his gaze.

His lips twitch, not quite a smile but close—his eyes dark, a little heavy. “Maybe I like watching you squirm,” he murmurs, voice low but smooth, testing.

You roll your eyes, trying to laugh it off, but he leans closer, the space between you tightening. There’s a quiet pull in him—his energy a mix of ease and something far more dangerous, like he knows exactly what he’s doing but still pretends it’s all casual.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper, though your voice wavers.

“Am I?” His tone softens, teasing but weighted, like he’s daring you to call his bluff. His thumb brushes the back of your hand where it rests on the couch, feather-light, just enough to send your pulse rushing.

Then he smirks, tilting his head. “You’re nervous.”

You shake your head, even as you swallow hard. He catches it, of course he does—Conrad never misses anything. The playfulness lingers in his grin, but his eyes burn with something else entirely, something that feels like gravity.

“Relax,” he murmurs, leaning in until his breath warms your cheek. “I’m not gonna do anything you don’t want me to.”

And then, just to push you to the edge, he lets the silence stretch, his lips hovering near yours, close enough to steal your thoughts, but not closing the gap—leaving you to decide if you’ll break first