I finish the last drops of my milkshake, deliberately ignoring Grey's eyes locked on me like I’m some curious puzzle.
Milkshake dribbles down the side of my mouth, and I wipe it away quickly, aware of his gaze sharpening. But the look he gives me when I finally meet his eyes isn’t judgmental—there’s something else swirling in that brown stare, something I can’t quite name.
"You sure you don’t want one? You look like you could eat," I offer, voice soft, trying to break the thick silence between us.
He licks his lips subtly, and I catch the hunger in the way his jaw tightens. I bite my own lip, a nervous tick I can’t seem to shake.
His lips curve into a faint, fleeting smile—an edge of something vulnerable peeking through his usual guarded mask.
"God, stop it, Azalea," he mutters abruptly, voice low and rough, like a warning.
"Stop what?" I tilt my head, curiosity piqued. Beneath the table, I feel his leg jittering anxiously, betraying his calm facade.
"Sorry," I say almost reflexively, not sure what I’m apologizing for. I glance around the diner, the clatter of dishes and murmur of other patrons grounding me.
Suddenly, his hand snakes under the table and grabs my leg firmly. "Don’t stop," he growls, eyes darkening with something fierce and raw.
Before I can react, he slams a twenty-dollar bill on the table. Twenty? For just two milkshakes? It feels like a silent challenge, a brash declaration.
Grey rises quickly, his grip tightening around my hand. I stumble up, the brace on my knee—a heavy, unyielding metal contraption—clanking softly as I try to keep my balance.
"Easy, Grey," I whisper, trying to slow him down, but he doesn’t listen. Instead, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms.
My breath catches as he carries me across the town square, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. He veers down Red Street without hesitation.
"Lilah," he hushes, pressing a quick, unexpected kiss to the sensitive curve of my neck. I freeze, a startled sound escaping me. Is this real? Am I dreaming?
As we reach the heavy door of his bar, he pushes it open, revealing the dim interior stacked with bottles that glint like jewels in the low light. The scent of aged oak and bittersweet alcohol wraps around us.
I spot the bartender, a familiar face, who catches my eye and smiles knowingly, sensing the unspoken tension between Grey and me.
But Grey’s hand clamps around my chin, turning my attention back to him. "Eyes on me. Only me," he commands, voice edged with impatience.
He guides me deeper into the back room, away from the prying eyes and murmurs of the front bar, to the shadowed alcove where the liquor is kept.
Grey sets me down on the worn wooden table roughly but without malice. His large hands find my hips, pulling me flush against him, and suddenly the air between us crackles with heat.
Flushed and fumbling, I struggle to steady my racing heart. "W-what are you doing?" I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
He chuckles darkly, his tattooed fingers tracing a slow path up my neck, sending shivers through me. "Look at you," he murmurs, his eyes smoldering with something I can’t quite decipher.
My skirt rides up slightly, and he notices immediately. His hand moves to pull it down, voice low and chastising, "You can’t wear these, Lilah. Not like this."
I bite my lip, cheeks burning. "Sorry," I mumble, feeling exposed under his intense gaze.
He presses against me harder, challenging me silently, and my hand finds his rigid stomach, fingers splaying over the solid muscle beneath his shirt.
A breath hitches in my throat as his breath fans over my neck, his proximity dizzying. My breaths grow shallow, uneven.
This feels unreal—like some strange, pulsing dream I can’t wake from. What is all this swirling inside me? Confusion, thrill, fear?
His lips brush my neck, soft and wet, igniting a warmth that floods through me. I gasp, startled by the tenderness in a place no one has touched before.
My hand moves almost on its own, sliding from his stomach to the solid expanse of his back, feeling every tense muscle, every breath he draws beneath my touch.
His mouth finds a sensitive spot just beside my throat, and I clamp my hand tightly on his shirt, biting down hard on my lip to stifle a moan that threatens to escape.
My chest rises and falls rapidly as he lingers there, the intensity of the moment overwhelming me.
Grey’s arm wraps around me, pulling me impossibly closer, anchoring me to him like I’m the only thing solid in his turbulent world.
He pulls back just enough to brush a final, lingering kiss over that spot on my neck before lifting his head, eyes searching mine as if asking a silent question.
Time seems to pause, the tension between us hanging thick and fragile in the dim light of the bar’s back room.
I want to speak, to ask what this all means, but the words catch in my throat.
Instead, I let the silence stretch, feeling the electric thread connecting us, fragile but real, as the night folds around us like a secret we both share.