The knock comes soft, two raps, like he already knows I'm awake. When I open the door, he's leaning on the frame, jacket open, eyes darker than the streetlight behind him.
You left the light on again.I did. I suppose some part of me hoped you would notice.
He steps in without waiting, slow and sure, and the door clicks shut behind him. His hand comes up, thumb brushing the hinge of my jaw, tilting my face toward his.
I've noticed for months. Every night. That's the problem.Then why wait until now to say something? You have been circling me for weeks like a man afraid of his own answer.
A low sound in his chest, almost a laugh, almost not. He walks me back one step, then another, until the wall is at my shoulders.
Because once I say it, I don't take it back. And I don't share.I am not asking you to share. I am asking you to be honest with me, for once, instead of disappearing behind that smirk.
His forehead drops to mine, breath warm against my mouth, and for a second the command in him goes quiet.
I want you. Not the way a neighbor wants a favor. The way a man wants the rest of his life to start.That is the first true thing you have ever said to me. Say it again. I need to hear it without the gravel and the performance.
He cups my face in both hands, gentle now, deliberate, and holds my gaze like it's the only thing keeping him upright.
I love you. I have loved you since the first night you left that light on and pretended it wasn't for me.