Chapter Six: You Don’t Look At Me Like That

  He showed up that evening without telling her.

  

  No message. No warning.

  

  Just the sound of the door unlocking again.

  

  She stiffened.

  

  “You still have that key?” she asked when he stepped inside.

  

  “Yes.”

  

  “You’re supposed to give it back.”

  

  “I will.”

  

  But he didn’t.

  

  He stood there for a second too long, looking at her like he was trying to solve something.

  

  “You were at a clinic,” he said.

  

  “Yes.”

  

  “For stress.”

  

  “Yes.”

  

  He stepped closer.

  

  Not aggressively.

  

  Just enough to shrink the space.

  

  “You don’t look stressed,” he said.

  

  She let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh.

  

  “What does stress look like to you?”

  

  “You’re pale. You’re tired. You’re avoiding me. And you flinch when I get close.”

  

  Her throat tightened.

  

  “You’re imagining things.”

  

  “No,” he said quietly. “I’m not.”

  

  There was something unsettled about him tonight. Less controlled.

  

  His hair was slightly messy. His tie loosened. Like he had come straight from somewhere without stopping to compose himself.

  

  “You don’t get to study me anymore,” she said.

  

  “I’m not studying you.”

  

  “You are.”

  

  Silence stretched between them.

  

  Then he did something unexpected.

  

  He reached for her wrist.

  

  Not hard.

  

  Not forceful.

  

  Just enough to stop her from turning away.

  

  Her pulse jumped beneath his fingers.

  

  He felt it.

  

  His eyes lifted slowly to hers.

  

  “You’re shaking,” he said.

  

  “I’m not.”

  

  “You are.”

  

  His thumb shifted slightly, brushing against her skin without thinking.

  

  The contact felt too intimate.

  

  Too familiar.

  

  Her body reacted before her mind could.

  

  He noticed.

  

  Of course he did.

  

  Something changed in his expression.

  

  Not suspicion.

  

  Not yet.

  

  Something more instinctive.

  

  “Is there someone else?” he asked again, softer this time.

  

  The question wasn’t angry.

  

  It was vulnerable.

  

  And that scared her more.

  

  “No,” she said firmly.

  

  “Then why do you feel so far away?”

  

  Because I am carrying something you don’t know about.

  

  Because I’m protecting it.

  

  Because I don’t trust you not to choose logic again.

  

  She pulled her wrist gently from his hand.

  

  “You chose distance,” she said.

  

  His jaw tightened.

  

  “I chose what I thought was right.”

  

  “For who?”

  

  He didn’t answer.

  

  That silence said more than anything else.

  

  For the first time, he looked unsure.

  

  Not about her.

  

  About himself.

  

  “I don’t regret it,” he said.

  

  But it sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  

  Her chest ached.

  

  “Then stop coming here,” she whispered.

  

  He looked at her like she had said something cruel.

  

  “I can’t,” he admitted before he could stop himself.

  

  The room went still.

  

  He hadn’t meant to say that.

  

  They both knew it.

  

  He stepped back quickly, composure sliding back into place.

  

  “I’ll return the key soon,” he said.

  

  But he didn’t leave immediately.

  

  He stayed just long enough to look at her again.

  

  Long enough for her hand to drift to her stomach.

  

  Long enough for him to notice.

  

  This time, his eyes didn’t move away.

  

  “What are you not telling me?” he asked quietly.

  

  And for the first time —

  

  She almost broke.