The mansion had gone unnaturally quiet after dinner. Guards whispered instead of laughed, the usual hum of activity reduced to a low murmur. It was as if everyone in the house had decided to give them space, though neither she nor he had asked for it. She sat by the large window of the study, watching the shadows stretch across the garden, the glass cool against her fingertips.
When footsteps padded behind her, she didn't need to turn to know it was him. His presence had become something she could feel in her very skin, warm, suffocating, impossible to ignore.
"You've been avoiding me," he said. His voice was low, a mix of irritation and something softer he was trying to hide.
"I've been thinking," she answered, refusing to face him. "That's not the same as avoiding."
"Thinking usually involves talking," he countered, moving closer. She could sense the heat of him even before his hand pressed against the window frame just above her head, trapping her in place.
