She seems to accept that. Or at least, the answer doesn’t frighten her the way it might have at the beginning of this forced cohabitation.
I see hope in her eyes when she meets mine. Then—and I don’t even think she’s aware she’s doing this—she runs a tongue along her lip where I just touched her.
Saying with her body what she’s too afraid to say with her words.
“You’re playing with fire now, Olivia,” I growl.
“Everyone’s always telling me I’m playing it too safe,” she whispers in a rasping voice that doesn’t sound like it belongs to her. “Maybe it’s about time to get burned.”
She reaches out. One pale, fragile little hand crossing all that space to graze against the buckle of my belt.
The fact that she does it?
That she takes the risk, the action, the impulse, instead of retreating
