6. Not Always. But I Try.

John leaned back in his chair, savoring my small moment of surrender. That smile—the one that usually drove me mad—this time only made me smile back, despite myself. It was impossible not to get caught up in his charm when he wasn’t even trying to impress.

“Me? Get my hopes up?” he said with a soft laugh. “What kind of man do you think I am?”

“The kind that’s used to winning,” I replied, my gaze steady on his.

“Not always. But I try.” His voice carried that natural confidence, like failure didn’t exist in his world—not really.

The dinner unfolded with a surprising ease. We talked about trivial things: books, music, even movies. The conversation flowed lightly, without the usual tension that hovered over us. Now and then, he’d drop a clever comment, one that made my stomach flip just a little. But I held my own, firing back with sarcasm, and to my surprise, John seemed to enjoy every second of it.

After dessert, when we were both more relaxed, he rested his elbows on the table and fixed me with that look I was starting to know too well.

“We should do this more often,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Do what?” I asked, feigning innocence.

“Have dinner. Enjoy each other’s company without putting up walls.” His eyes gleamed with that playful spark that always left me on edge.

“Oh really?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And who says I enjoyed your company?”

John laughed—that low, rich laugh that seemed to come from somewhere deep—and gave me a look that said he knew exactly how I felt.

“Catherine, if you weren’t enjoying this, you wouldn’t still be here. You could’ve left at any moment.”

I fell silent, hit right where it hurt. He was right, and we both knew it. I could have come up with an excuse, faked a headache, anything to escape. But I hadn’t.

“You have a strange way of making people tolerate you,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He smiled, and for a moment, the world softened. No games, no tension. Just us.

We left the restaurant, and he walked me back to his car. The night air was cool, a soft breeze playing with my hair, and without a word, John took my hand. The gesture was so simple, yet loaded with so much more. I didn’t pull away, even though my mind was screaming at me to. There was something comforting in the warmth of his hand—something that made me feel safe, even when I knew I probably shouldn’t.

When we reached my building, he turned off the engine, but neither of us moved. We sat there, the city noise distant, like we were sealed in our own little bubble.

“John…” I began, unsure what I even wanted to say.

“I know.” He interrupted me softly, as if he could read my thoughts.

“What do you know?” I frowned.

“I know you’re scared. And I know you don’t want to feel what you’re feeling right now.” His hand was still on mine, steady and warm. “But you don’t have to decide anything tonight.”

I stared at him, thrown off by how simple he made it sound. As if falling for him wasn’t a disaster waiting to happen.

“I don’t know if this can work, John. We’re too different.” The words tumbled out, raw and unfiltered. It was true—we were opposites. Two worlds that didn’t fit together.

“And who says that’s a bad thing?” He narrowed his eyes, thoughtful. “Sometimes the most interesting things happen when opposites collide.”

I sighed, looking away. I was searching for reasons, excuses, anything to end it before it could really begin. But when I felt his hand, when I looked into his eyes, all I wanted was to let go. Even if it meant risking everything.

“I’m not one of your conquests, John.” I met his gaze, steady and firm. “I won’t let you play with me.”

His eyes held mine, serious—more sincere than I’d ever seen them.

“I don’t want to play with you, Catherine. And honestly? You’re nothing like anyone I’ve ever been with. You challenge me. You make me think. I don’t want this to be a game.”

My heart was pounding—but not from fear. From something else. Something I didn’t want to name.

“Then what do you want?” I asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.

“I want to know you. I want to understand what goes through your head when you go quiet. I want to see what really makes you laugh.” His voice was soft, but the intensity behind it took my breath away. “And if you let me… I want to try.”

I sat there, silent. Try. I never imagined that John Blackwell—the man who could have anything—would say those words to me. But there he was, waiting, not demanding, just… waiting.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, because that was the truth. I needed time.

John smiled, like that was enough. Then he leaned in, his lips brushing my cheek in a gesture so innocent, yet so charged, it left me trembling.

“Take all the time you need,” he whispered before pulling back.

I watched him walk away. And as I made my way up to my apartment, I realized something: I was already in too deep.

But you know what?

I didn’t care anymore.