His jaw ticked, and his eyes turned fierce, pinning me to the lighthouse deck with the force of his stare. “Morgan, you don’t get to tell me what I want any more than I get to dictate your feelings.”

I blinked, admitting the undeniable logic of his statement. “That’s fair.”

“If you don’t want to start something with me, then that’s your choice, and I’ll respect it, no matter how badly I want to convince you otherwise.”

“Thank you.” Crap, was that a twinge of disappointment that lowered my shoulders?

His head tilted back as his chest rose and fell with a deep breath, as if he was the one struggling for control—not me. When he met my gaze again, I held my breath.

What the hell did I really want? To press pause on this moment, call Sam and get her take on it, and then press play again so I know what I’m supposed to be feeling. Like that was going to happen.

“I know about the anxiety attacks. Remember, I was there for one,” he stated simply, like we were talking about what we’d had for lunch. “I’m glad you have a therapist because I’m well aware that you’re working through something that you’re not ready to let me in on, and that’s okay. You don’t exactly know everything about me, either, and chances are the more you know, the more you’ll think you’re the one who should run.” He didn’t move a muscle, but the way he looked at me felt like a caress all the same. “In fact, I know you’ll be the one running.”

“From you?” I scoffed. “You’re the most together person I know.” Even if he was still pining for his ex, but who was I to judge?

“Then you should meet more people.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Morgan, I like you, and I don’t just mean as my neighbor. I want you in a way that keeps me up at night, mentally calculating the steps between my door and yours. I want you so badly that I barely stop myself from taking those steps every single night. I have no problem owning my feelings about you. And while I’m not going to push you for something when you obviously don’t feel the same—”

My jaw dropped. “I never said I don’t want you—”

“I damn well think you deserve to know that you might preach you’re a mess, but I think you’re pretty fucking perfect, wreckage and all.”

Every protest died on my tongue at the tangible sincerity in his voice.