He still doesn't step away.
He stands in front of me, close enough that his shadow folds over my body. My back is pressed to the cold wall, the chill sinking through the thin fabric of my shirt, but it's nothing compared to the heat radiating from him. His anger clings to the air, thick and heavy, like a storm waiting to break.
His voice drops, low and steady.
"Tomorrow. I'll pick you up in the morning. And the whole day… you'll spend it with me."
My breath stills.
He says it like a fact, not an invitation.
He says it like someone who already owns the answer.
Is this man insane?
He talks like we're lovers—like some twisted couple carved from his imagination.
I drag a long breath in and let it out. "Fine. Now go. I'm tired and sleepy."
I move to step away from the wall, but he doesn't shift. Not even an inch.
I stop.
My patience thins.
"What now?" I ask, voice sharp.
His gaze drags down my face—slow, unblinking, dangerous.
