The heat of his fingers burned into my skin, grounding me, pulling me back in before I could slip away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low.

“For what?” I whispered.

“For being here. For—” He let out a breath. “For everything.”

I closed my eyes for half a second, willing myself not to react.

I failed. Because when I looked at him again, I felt it.

The pull. The ache.

The thing I never wanted to name.

Blake’s gaze dragged over me, slow and deliberate, from my silver hoops to the pink halter top that clung to my skin, to the low-rise jeans that revealed just enough of my stomach to make his jaw tick.

I arched a brow, daring him. Come on, say something.

I knew there was a remark on the tip of his tongue; I could see it in the slight parting of his lips, in the way his eyes lingered just a second too long, like he was committing something to memory. Like he wanted to speak but wasn’t sure if he should.

“Blake McHayes,” I said, crossing my arms. “I dare you to complain about my outfit.”

His lips twitched as he looked me up and down one more time—slower this time, like he was memorizing something he wasn’t supposed to.

“I wasn’t going to. You can wear whatever you want, B.”

I lifted my chin. “Damn right, I can.”

A teasing smile formed on his lips, but his gaze sharpened slightly, flicking past me, scanning the party like he was already making mental calculations.

And then, just as fast as he’d let me think I’d won, he leaned in and added, “I’m here now,” his voice low enough that only I could hear it. “I can fight whoever looks at you the wrong way.”

I blinked. That wasn’t what I was expecting.

Blake didn’t wait for a response. He grabbed Jamal by the collar, ignoring his protests, and dragged him toward the couch in the corner of the room where a few guys sat, lazily watching the party unfold. Like he hadn’t just thrown gasoline on the very fire I was trying to put out.

Jamal groaned, slumping onto the couch dramatically. “You really had to manhandle me like that?”

Blake didn’t answer. He just sat back, stretching his legs out in front of him like he had no intentions of moving any time soon. His arm draped lazily over the backrest, his fingers tapping against the cushion. His eyes scanned the party, half-interested, half-guarded, like he was already plotting out the fastest way to grab me and pull me out if things went south.

I stood there, frozen in place, feeling the ghost of his words press against my skin like fingerprints.

I swallowed hard, heat simmering under my skin, and turned away before I did something stupid. Like stare at him all night.

“Well, that was something.”