The night is deep and quiet, the world washed in white as snow falls softly from the sky. Streetlights blur into warm halos beyond the car window. I sit leaned back in the seat, staring outside, watching flakes dissolve the city into silence.
Rion sits beside me.
Too close.
His hand is wrapped around mine—firm, possessive—his thumb brushing slow, absent strokes over my knuckles like he has every right to be there. I try to pull away.
He doesn't let me.
Instead, he shifts closer, heat bleeding through the thin space between us.
I turn my head sharply, fixing him with a dangerous stare.
"Rion," I say, voice tight, controlled, "there's plenty of space. Why are you sticking to me?"
He looks at me, really looks—eyes softening, gaze lingering like he's memorizing my face. Slowly, gently, his free hand comes up and cups my cheek.
"Kitten," he murmurs, thumb brushing my skin, "are you still angry with me?"
Angry?
