With most men, she measured her words. She kept her smile polite, her laughter controlled, her body angled just enough to discourage assumption. She had perfected the art of distance, of keeping her space protected. But when it came to him, every barrier she’d built seemed to crumble on its own. She wasn’t careless—she was deliberate. And yet, around him, her care melted into something softer, something more reckless than she had allowed herself in years.
It was in the way he looked at her, not with hunger, but with patience. His gaze didn’t dart, it rested. It gave her room to breathe, and yet it made her feel breathless. The first time he leaned in, his voice low and calm, she felt the skin at the back of her neck tighten with awareness. When his fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, she didn’t flinch the way she might have with anyone else. Instead, she tilted her chin upward, offering more space than he had asked for.
Careful women don’t hand their vulnerability away, but that’s exactly what she did each time she found herself in his company. She wasn’t careful with him because she didn’t need to be—his certainty wrapped around her like a safety she hadn’t known she was missing. And when she finally let his hand linger against hers, she understood that it wasn’t about being reckless. It was about finally allowing herself to be touched, seen, and wanted in a way no one else had ever managed.