They stop pretending.
Not to the world—but to each other.
His hand fits her lower back like it belongs there. Her fingers linger at his collar, undoing years of discipline one button at a time.
There is heat now. Want. Hunger neither of them names out loud.
When they finally give in, it's not rushed. It's intimate in a way neither expected—whispers, pauses, the kind of closeness that feels too real to be part of a deal.
Afterward, she lies awake, listening to his breathing.
This isn't just desire.
This is attachment forming where it shouldn't.