Chapter 6 #10
He leans in a little, eyes narrowing as he inspects the cut near my ear, his brows furrowed, focused, and that just pisses me off more, like this means nothing to him, like I'm just a task.
I could bite him. Or kiss him.
Or grab his wrist and shove him away and—
"Hold still," he mutters, almost absently, like I'm the one making this complicated, like I'm not sitting here trying not to groan at how fucking good it feels to be held like that.
I swallow hard. I don't move. I don't speak.
Because if I open my mouth, I might fucking beg. His eyes keep flicking up to mine. Each time he does, I stare back.
I want him to feel it, the heat, the pressure, the weight of every single what if choking the air between us.
"You missed a spot," I say.
He pauses, cotton pad hovering. "Where?"
I lean forward just a little, just enough. He doesn't back away. "Here," I whisper, nodding toward the corner of my mouth. "Right there."
His gaze drops. He hesitates. Then slowly, he lifts his hand and touches the spot with his thumb instead of the pad.
His thumb lingers, dragging just slightly across my lower lip. A sound escapes me, not a word, just want.
And he looks up again. His face is right there. I can feel the heat radiating off him, his thigh brushing against mine, his other hand still resting lightly on my shoulder.
Gio, get your shit together. He's just Rava.
I repeat it again and again.
Just Rava. The guy I used to make fun of for color-coding his bookshelves.
The guy who used to flinch when I said "fuck" too loud. The guy who gets anxious when there's no plan.
Not the guy who has me paralyzed with a goddamn touch. I need to snap out of it. Right now.
So I open my mouth and let instinct take over. "You give off 'I apologize to chairs when I bump into them' energy."
He pauses and looks at me. "What the fuck did I do now?!"
Like I ruined his day.
And I break. I laugh, one of those ugly ones, from deep in the chest, unfiltered, almost painful, because the only thing I can do is roast him to stop myself from pulling him into my lap and kissing the breath out of him.
He stares at me, wide-eyed and vaguely offended, like he's not sure whether to slap me or ask if I'm having a stroke.
But I don't move. Not yet.
Because this tension, is unfortunately better than any fucking drug I'd ever touched.
And fuck, I am so not ready to get addicted.
35) You Were Warned
Rava
I button my shirt slowly.
One button, then the next, then the next. Everything feels wrong on my skin. The fabric really irritates me. The collar feels too tight. The sleeves feel like they belong to someone else, even though it’s the same shirt I wore last week.
Same size. Same fit. Nothing changed on my body. Only my head, maybe, which feels swollen from everything I’ve been holding in since last night.
I hardly slept.
Every time I closed my eyes, I would just spin, roll over, flip to the other side, kick the blankets off, drag them back on, my brain replaying things I shouldn’t replay.
The way Gio looked at me on that damn couch, like he was bored and starving at the same time, like he knew exactly how close I was to snapping and loved it.
The way my fingers touched his face. The way his voice dropped to almost nothing, like every word was just for me.
How close we got.
I shut the drawer harder than I meant to.
It pisses me off. Actually pisses me off.
He ruins my sleep without even being here.
Like, whose side are you on, brain? Seriously. What the hell.
This isn’t helping. I need to focus. Meeting today. Big names. My father is watching. I have to be on point, sharp.
I adjust my jacket. Check my reflection.
I look fine. Tired, maybe, but presentable. He will be there. And the most annoying part, the part that makes me want to slam my head into the wall, is that my brain is actually excited to see him again.
Excited.
Like a dog waiting by the door. Like oh, when is Gio coming back to ruin our peace again?
Pathetic. For what reason?
What exactly am I looking forward to?
More bruises?
More arguments that somehow feel too something?
Maybe my brain is just bored. Maybe it wants drama because I’ve been too calm for too long. Too predictable.
Maybe I got used to my quiet routine, and then he walked in and my whole system went, oh, this is new, this is loud, this is dangerous, we like this, apparently we like this.
I don’t know. I genuinely don’t know.
All I know is that he has me upside down and inside out for absolutely no logical reason, and it’s making me lose my mind.
I sit on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes and try to breathe through the chaos in my chest.
I don’t even know what this is.
We aren’t friends. We are not enemies either.
And we definitely aren’t just pretending, not after last night.
But what are we? What the fuck am I?
…
By the time we pull up to the building, I already have a headache.
I take the elevator to the top floor, nod at two assistants, keep walking.
I know how to wear this version of me, the clean, professional, yes sir version, the one my father doesn’t yell at, the one the others respect just enough to leave alone.
The doors open.
I step into the meeting room, and immediately I feel it.
Something is off.
The room is half full, people standing around, chatting softly, the usual. But my father is already seated at the far end of the table, and he doesn’t look at me.
Not even a nod.
Okay.
I walk to my seat, greet two people politely, sit down, wait.
Still nothing. No glance. No greeting. Nothing.
My mother sits beside him, sipping from a tiny glass of water. I lean toward her. "Is he mad at me?"
She keeps her face forward, smiles softly. "We’ll talk after."
My stomach drops. That means yes. And bad.
What the hell did I do?
What did I forget?
Did I slip up somehow?
Did I send the wrong file?
Did I miss a check-in for the hotel?
Did he hear something?
See something?
My brain sprints through every possibility at once, none of them helpful. I bite my lip hard, trying to ground myself.
He can’t know.
There’s no way.
Maybe I forgot a signature.
Maybe a shipment is delayed.
Maybe I misfiled one stupid document and he’s blowing it out of proportion.
But the fear doesn’t listen. He knows something. He knows and he’s disappointed. He knows and I messed up. I have no idea what’s happening, and that makes it ten times worse.
I adjust my glasses again and try to focus on the notes in front of me, but the words blur.
The door opens, and every single thought in my head falls away.
Gio walks in.
He strolls in like this is his living room, like he hasn’t been in a fight less than twenty-four hours ago. My eyes lock on him before I even realize it, and something loosens.
I hate it, but I also don’t. He looks like he hasn’t slept, but he’s here, and for some stupid reason I feel relieved, like the pressure in my chest cracks open just enough for me to breathe.
He scans the room, gives a lazy nod to someone, and then his eyes find me.
We stare. No smile. No words.
And suddenly I don’t care what my dad thinks. I don’t care why he’s angry. I don’t care about the stupid meeting or the people talking around me.
Gio takes the seat directly in front of me. His eyes flick lazily from speaker to speaker, but every few seconds they land back on me. He looks so casual, like none of this matters, like he didn’t almost kiss me yesterday, for real this time.
I hate him for that, except I don’t, I can’t, because when he looks at me like that, I forget my own name.
I glance down at my notes, try to concentrate.
My phone buzzes under the table. I jump slightly. No one notices. I reach for it slowly, tilt it up.
The message preview is already there.
GIO:
-You look like you’re about to faint. Is it the tie? Or me?
I clench my jaw. I don’t answer. I look up. He’s already watching me. My phone buzzes again.
GIO:
-Want me to stop?
-Or go harder?
Jesus. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s enjoying this.
ME:
-Grow up, Gio.
GIO:
-You first. You’re the one blushing.
I’m not. I hope. I shoot him a glare across the table. He raises one eyebrow, innocent, almost. Another message comes through.
GIO:
-What are you thinking about
ME:
-Your bruises. You look like shit.
He doesn’t respond immediately. When I look up, he’s smiling. His fingers move slowly over his phone again.
GIO:
-They don’t hurt
-You do
I stare at the screen, wide-eyed. I can’t breathe for a second. Then my mother nudges my elbow gently. "You’re not listening," she whispers, still smiling politely.
"Sorry." I put the phone down, shove it into my jacket pocket.
Now I get to sit here for the next two hours listening to people drone on about hotel logistics while my curiosity eats me alive from the inside out.
I hate when they do this, show me you’re upset, show me something’s wrong, throw the vibe completely fucking off, and then go, "We’ll talk later."
Later? Ma’am, I might not live until later.
I will literally combust from anxiety.
…
The ride home literally feels like walking blindfolded toward something waiting to hurt me.
No one speaks. The tension is so thick I could slice it with a butter knife.
Every time my dad sighs, my heart drops into my stomach. Every time he taps the wheel, I wonder if it’s about me.
"Dad—"
"Silence," he says.
Perfect. I die now.
I’m twenty-two and this is how I go out, not from a car crash, not from illness, but from stress because my dad has attitude. I’m actually so scared right now.
God, please. Let it be something else. Let it be anything else.
Yell about my paperwork, my hotel schedules, my stupid signature on the contracts.
Yell about my shirt being wrinkled, my hair being weird, my breathing being too loud.
I’ll take it. I’ll survive it.
Just please don’t let it be the thing I’m afraid it is.
When we get home, we walk in quietly. My mother’s heels on the floor are the only sound.