Chapter 12
MILA
The stairwell felt narrower than it ever had.
Connor followed me up, his presence filling the space behind me like heat. Not crowding. Not rushing. Just there—steady footsteps, controlled breathing, the faint sound of his coat shifting when he moved his arm.
My heart hadn’t stopped racing since the street. Since the violence. Since the way he’d stepped in front of me without asking, like it wasn’t a choice but a fact.
Protection as instinct.
I unlocked my door with hands that still shook, my fingers fumbling like they didn’t quite belong to me anymore. I could feel him watching—not my body, not yet, but the moment. Reading me. Tracking whether I was okay in the way men like him probably always did.
Inside, the apartment felt too quiet.
The door closed behind us with a soft click that sounded final in a way that made my stomach drop. Not dangerous-final. Charged-final. Like a line had been crossed and neither of us was pretending otherwise.
I turned the lock. Then, without thinking, the chain.
Connor noticed.
“Habit?” he asked gently.
“Tonight,” I said, and only realized after that it sounded like an invitation and a confession all at once.
He nodded once. No judgment. No comment.
The overhead light was too bright. I crossed the room and turned on the lamp instead, letting the space fall into soft shadows. Pale walls, uneven floors, the window reflecting us back at ourselves—two figures standing too close, pretending not to notice how the air vibrated between them.
I gestured toward the chair. “Sit. Let me see your arm.”
“It’s nothing,” he said automatically.
“Sit,” I repeated.
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe. Or approval. Then he obeyed.
I crouched in front of him, carefully unbuttoning his coat, sliding it off his shoulders. My fingers brushed his wrist, then his forearm, and my breath caught at the warmth of his skin.
This wasn’t accidental.
I was aware of every choice I was making.
The cut was shallow but angry-looking, red against his skin. I went to the sink, grabbed a cloth, dampened it. When I knelt again, his knees were spread just slightly, and I hated myself for noticing.
I pressed the cloth to his arm.
He sucked in a breath.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“Don’t be.”
His voice was low. Steady. Controlled in a way that felt like a hand at the base of my spine.
I cleaned the cut carefully, aware of how close I was—my shoulder nearly brushing his thigh, my hair falling forward. I tucked it behind my ear with one finger, and when I looked up, he was watching me like I was something he didn’t trust himself to touch.
The silence stretched.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said quietly. “Out there.”
“Yes,” he said.
The word landed heavy.
I wrapped the cut, my fingers lingering longer than necessary, then sat back on my heels. The shift brought my face level with his chest. I could smell him—clean, dark, something underneath that felt dangerous in a way my body responded to without permission.
I stood too quickly.
Distance felt safer.
Except it didn’t.
I paced once, then stopped near the desk where my camera sat. My heart hammered as if I’d been running again, even though I’d barely moved.
“This—” I started, then stopped. “Tonight doesn’t feel real.”
Connor stood slowly, like he didn’t want to spook me. “It was real.”
“I know. I mean—” I gestured vaguely, encompassing the apartment, the city, my body. “Everything feels … louder.”
His gaze softened. “Adrenaline.”
“And something else,” I said before I could stop myself.
He didn’t deny it.
I turned toward the window, pressing my palm against the glass like I could anchor myself to something solid. My reflection stared back—eyes too bright, mouth slightly parted, a woman who looked like she was standing at the edge of a decision she’d been rehearsing for years.
Amaya’s voice slid into my mind, uninvited.
You learned how to want quietly.
I swallowed.
I hadn’t realized how deeply that lesson had settled until now. How often I’d mistaken restraint for maturity. Silence for safety. Almost for enough.
I turned back to Connor.
“You scare me,” I said honestly.
His jaw tightened. “That’s not my intention.”
“I know.” I took a breath. “You scare me because I want you. And I don’t feel small when I do.”
Something in his expression shifted—like I’d hit a nerve.
He took a step closer. “Mila—”
“Let me finish,” I said, my voice trembling despite myself. “I spent a long time thinking desire was something you endured. Something you rationed. Something that meant you’d already lost control.”
I laughed softly, humorless. “Turns out, I was just letting the wrong people define the rules.”
The air between us thickened.
Connor stopped an arm’s length away. His hands stayed at his sides. The restraint in that alone made my thighs tighten.
“I don’t want to do this the way I’ve done it before,” I said. “I don’t want to disappear into someone else’s authority. I don’t want to be chosen quietly and kept carefully out of sight.”
His eyes held mine, unblinking. “And what do you want?”
I surprised myself by answering without hesitation.
“I want to be seen,” I said. “On my terms.”
A beat passed.
Then another.
Connor exhaled slowly, like he was bracing himself. “Then don’t give me power you’re not ready to take back.”
The words hit me hard.
My pulse skidded.
I reached for my camera.
The movement was instinctive, but not unconscious. I lifted it, feeling the familiar weight settle into my hands, the way it always centered me.
“I want to remember this,” I said. “Not the violence. The moment after.”
His brow furrowed. “You want pictures?”
“Yes.” I swallowed. “If you’re okay with it.”
He studied me for a long moment. Finally, he nodded once.
“Okay.”
The word sent a ripple through me.
I raised the camera and framed him where he stood—half in shadow, coat gone, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms that looked like they knew exactly what they were capable of.
Click.
The sound was loud in the quiet room.
He shifted slightly, not posing, just existing. Watching me watch him.
Click.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmured, half to myself.
“So are you,” he said.
I lowered the camera just enough to meet his gaze. “Come closer.”
He did.
Not all the way. Just enough to change the frame.
I backed toward the wall, lifting the camera again, my spine brushing cool plaster. He stopped when his body was a breath away from mine, close enough that I could feel heat without contact.
For one dangerous second, I imagined him naked in front of my lens—not posed, not performing. Just there. I imagined stripping him down to truth: the lines of his shoulders, the way strength lived quietly in his frame, the marks the world had left behind.
I wanted to photograph the contrast—the discipline and the damage, the control and what it cost him.
I wanted to catch the way his body held itself even in stillness, like it was always ready to move, always prepared to act.
I’d shoot him in shadow, light grazing muscle, never revealing everything at once.
A collarbone. A hip. The tension in his hands.
Proof of a man who didn’t exist to be consumed, only witnessed.
The kind of naked that wasn’t about skin—but exposure.
Click.
My breath came shallow now. I lowered the camera again, my fingers trembling.
“Your turn,” he said quietly.
“My turn?”
“To be seen.”
The words made something inside me crack open.
I hesitated only a second before handing him the camera.
Connor took it carefully, like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I stepped back into the light, suddenly aware of my body in a way that wasn’t critical or cautious. My dress skimmed my hips. My hair fell loose around my shoulders. My pulse thudded loud in my ears.
I didn’t pose.
I let my weight settle into one hip. Let my shoulders drop. Let my mouth soften the way it did when I forgot to guard it.
The camera clicked.
Once.
Twice.
Each sound felt like a touch.
His gaze never left me, even when he lowered the camera. He set it aside with deliberate care, like he knew if he moved too fast, something would break.
“You’re not hiding,” he said.
“No,” I whispered. “I’m not.”
The distance between us evaporated.
His hand came up slowly, hovering at my waist the way it had before.
I nodded.
His palm settled against me, warm and steady.
My body arched into it without thinking.
The contact sent heat spiraling low and sharp, my breath catching in a way that felt almost painful.
“Connor,” I breathed.
His other hand came up, fingers brushing my jaw, tilting my face up. He didn’t kiss me yet. Just held me there, suspended, like the moment mattered more than what came next.
“This is where it changes,” he said quietly. “If we keep going.”
“I know.”
The kiss came then.
Not rushed.
Deep.
His mouth covered mine with a control that made my knees weak, like he was choosing every movement instead of letting it run away from him. I opened to him on instinct, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer without realizing I was doing it.
He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through me.
My back hit the wall. His body followed, close but not crushing, his thigh sliding between mine just enough to make me gasp.
Heat pooled everywhere.
Everywhere.
I kissed him back, harder now, need flickering sharp and bright. His hand slid from my waist up my side, stopping just below my breast, fingers splayed, possessive.
I wanted more.
God, I wanted more.
Not the frantic kind. The devastating kind that made time feel elastic.
Up close, he was even more unfair—dark hair cut with disciplined precision, the kind that suggested habit rather than vanity, his face all hard planes and restraint.
A mouth that looked like it had learned early not to say everything it knew.
Eyes darker than I expected, steady and intent, like nothing about me was accidental.
He didn’t look polished the way men back home tried to look polished. He looked used—in the best way. Like the world had tested him and found him capable.
Exotic wasn’t the right word, but it was the only one my brain offered. Not foreign exactly—other. As if he operated by a different gravity, one I hadn’t grown up learning to navigate.
I pressed my mouth to his jaw, then his neck, tasting him—clean skin, salt, something warm and masculine underneath that made my pulse jump.
He tasted like restraint barely holding.
Like danger kept on a short leash. His breath hitched when my lips lingered, and the sound went straight through me, low and sharp, like a reward.
My hands slid lower, over the hard lines of his torso, mapping muscle that felt earned rather than displayed. This wasn’t a body sculpted to be admired. It was built to do things. To protect. To endure. To take control when needed—and let go when it mattered.
Every inch of him felt deliberate. Different from the men I’d known before, who wanted to be wanted. Connor felt like a man who decided.
“Wait,” he said, rough.
And the word—God—didn’t cool anything.
It only made me want him more.
I froze.
He rested his forehead against mine, breathing hard, his grip tightening briefly before loosening.
“If we keep going,” he said again, “I won’t stop. And tonight isn’t the night I want to take you.”
Frustration flared hot and immediate. “Why?”
“Because you’re choosing,” he said. “And I won’t let this turn into something you wake up from wondering who had the power.”
My chest heaved. My body screamed in protest.
“You already do,” I said, breathless.
His eyes darkened. “Only if you give it to me.”
I stared at him, torn between wanting to push him away and wanting to pull him back harder.
Finally, I laughed—a shaky, breathless sound. “You’re infuriating.”
“Yes.”
I pressed my forehead to his chest, letting myself feel the thud of his heart beneath my ear. Strong. Steady.
Alive.
“This is new,” I admitted.
“For me, too,” he said quietly.
That surprised me more than anything else.
He stepped back first, creating space even though it clearly cost him something. My body hummed, aching, my skin still buzzing where he’d touched me.
He picked up his coat, then paused, looking at the camera again.
“Those photos,” he said. “They stay with you.”
“Yes.”
“And if you ever want to show me how you see me,” he added, “I’m not afraid of that.”
Something warm and dangerous settled in my chest.
He moved toward the door, then stopped, turning back to me.
“This doesn’t end tonight,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I met his gaze, my pulse finally slowing just enough to feel deliberate.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
He nodded once, satisfied, then left me standing in my apartment—breathless, frustrated, awake.
The door closed softly behind him.
I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, my head tipping back, my body still humming with unsatisfied want.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t mistake frustration for rejection.
I smiled.
Paris had taught me how to choose.