“I did,” he says softly, his dark eyes searching mine. “I did do that.”
He doesn’t pretend otherwise, and he doesn’t try to pivot the conversation away from the heavy admission lingering in the air between us. Outside, the snow falls steadily against the high penthouse windows, a softer sound than the harsh squall earlier, but the bedroom suddenly feels noticeably tighter, narrower, as though the room itself has shrunk around us.
“Do you want me to stop asking?” I ask, searching his face for any sign of guarded withdrawal.
“No.”
The response is immediate and absolute, though there’s a strained, uncomfortable edge to his voice that tells me how much this is costing him.
I carefully turn onto my side so I can look at him properly without straining my neck, but the sudden shift sends a s
