He was still looking toward the exit, so she reached for his arm, wanting him to stay but not wanting to beg. His muscles flexed under her hand.

“It wasn’t only that, Andra. You looked at me and you knew me.” His voice went hoarse. “And you were still afraid.”

Her hand fell away as he turned and paced two steps, scrubbing both hands over his close-cropped hair.

She needed to say something, do something, so that this moment wouldn’t be the end of whatever this thing was between them. “I can’t help it,” she whispered. “It’s not your fault. It just happens.”

“It doesn’t. Not according to your daddy. Not until I started shoving my way into your life because I didn’t want to wait until you invited me. Damn it.” He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, one of his knuckles popping when it clenched too hard.

He was so wound up it made Andra’s heart pound to take a step closer, but she did it anyway. She was taking a chance she knew him well enough that what she was about to do might be the right thing instead of exactly the wrong one. She hated to see him upset, but at the same time . . . it was for her. And that simple thought melted her entirely.

She ducked inside his bent elbow and pushed up onto her toes, laying a kiss on his cheek.

He blinked and dropped his hands. “What was that for?”

“For caring,” she said softly. “And for not waiting for an invitation.”

The wound in his deep-brown eyes was one she had no idea how to heal, because it ripped deeper with every word out of her mouth. “I care a hell of a lot more than you think, Andra.” He stared straight over her head, toward the exit, but he didn’t move. “I hate that I’m making everything harder on you just by being here.”

“You’re not. You’re making it . . .” She touched his side, and when he didn’t pull away, she stepped closer, warmth spreading through her at the intensity of his reaction. “Different. Good different.”

“Didn’t look like good from here.” He blew out a breath. “Fuck, those things scare me. You know it?”

“I know.” After a second, she let her hands settle on his waist. When that seemed okay, she slid them around to the curve of his lower back, the muscles to either side of his spine filling her palms. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t apologize. Just let me hold on to you for a second, okay?” His arms came around her, and he rested his chin on top of her head. “I don’t want your daddy to be right about me, Andie-girl.” The words were so low they were no more than a rumble in the places where his neck touched her forehead.