I swallowed, suddenly aware of every sound in the room. Her tank top clung to her in all the ways that made my throat close up. Her legs moved with too much confidence, like she hadn’t been hiding behind a café counter for two years.

“You planning on killing me?” I asked, voice rough.

She didn’t respond. Just pivoted into another fluid movement, one arm arching overhead, the other trailing down her side.

Her eyes never left the mirror, but she knew I was watching. She wanted me to watch.

“Beverly,” I warned, but it came out more like a desperate plea. “I thought we weren’t doing this.”

“We’re not doing anything,” she said, her eyes catching mine in the reflection.

“Really? Because it feels a lot like you’re trying to kill me.”

“You said I could have this space, right?”

“Of course,” I managed.

“You better sit your ass down and watch me use it.”

“Already am,” I muttered. “Haven’t stopped.” I sat there, hands clenched around the edge of the stool, chest tight, mouth dry.

She danced like sin wrapped in softness.

Like a dare I hadn’t earned the right to take.

“I thought about you,” I said, voice hoarse.

She turned in one fluid movement, her gaze sliding toward me. “Yeah?” she asked, not missing a beat as her body moved with the rhythm of the music. “I thought about you too. Sometimes.”

“Every time I got a paycheck, I imagined your reaction. Every time I saw a girl in a ponytail, I checked if it was tied with a pink scrunchie. Every time I caught a whiff of cinnamon, it made me want to throw something.”

She paused, her feet slowing a fraction before she spun again. “You still look at me the same way,” she said, breathless.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve never seen me before, but somehow also like you invented me. Like I’m something you made up just to stare at.”

My throat tightened with all the words I hadn’t said over the years. There were a thousand things I wanted to say, and none of them felt worthy. “I didn’t invent you,” I finally said with a sigh, “but I’ve never stopped being in awe of you.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I don’t know if I believe them anymore.” Beverly came to a stop in front of me, so close I could smell her again—Tommy Girl and something distinctly her.

Her hand brushed my knee as she circled me. Without thinking, I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into my lap. She let out a breath of surprise but didn’t stop me. I held her there, hands trembling as they slid along her back.

“Blake,” she whispered, my name barely more than a breath, yet it sent a ripple through me.

“I’ve missed you every second, B.”