"Unless I break first." Her voice is flat. "That's what you're saying, isn't it? He wants me to crumble, to come crawling back, to admit that I can't survive without him."
"That's what he wants. But that's not what's going to happen."
She stands abruptly, pacing the narrow space between the desk and the wall. She's practically vibrating with it, a restless fury I've never seen before. This isn't the broken woman who walked into the Ironside a month ago. This is someone else. Someone who's done being a victim.
"Four years." Her voice rises. "I gave him four years of my life. I let him cut me off from everyone I loved. I missed my parents' funeral because he convinced me I couldn't afford the time off. I let him turn me into someone I didn't recognize, someone who flinched at shadows and apologized for breathing too loud."
"Gemma."
"No." She spins to face me, and her eyes are blazing. "I'm done. I'm done being afraid of him. I'm done letting him control my life from another state. He doesn't get to do this anymore. He doesn't get to win."
The fire in her hits me low in the gut. This is who she was before Craig. I'm watching her remember.
I want her. The thought arrives fully formed, impossible to argue with. I want this version of her, the one who burns instead of breaks. I want her so fiercely it hurts.
She sees it. I don't know what shows on my face, but she sees it, and the air between us goes tight. The anger doesn't fade, but it changes, transforms into something else entirely. Her breathing quickens. Her eyes drop to my mouth.
"Gemma." My voice comes out rough. "This isn't the time."
"When is the time?" She moves toward me, closing the distance I've been so careful to maintain. "When I'm not angry? When I'm not scared? When I've got my life perfectly together and there's nothing complicated about any of it?" She stops in front of my chair, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet her eyes. "That's never going to happen, Will. Life is always going to be complicated. I'm always going to be a little bit broken. If you're waiting for perfect conditions, you're going to be waiting forever."
"I'm not going to take advantage of you."
"You're not taking anything." She reaches down and takes my hand, pressing it flat against her chest where I can feel her heart racing. "I'm giving. That's the difference, isn't it? That's what you've been trying to teach me. The difference between taking and giving."
I should stop this. I should stand up, walk out of the room, create space between us until we've both had time to think. That's the smart play. That's what a better man would do.
I'm not a better man. Not right now.
I rise from the chair, and she doesn't back away. We're inches apart, her hand still pressed over mine against her chest, her face tilted up toward mine. I cup her jaw with my free hand, feeling the flutter of her pulse beneath my fingers.
"If you want to stop," I say quietly, "you say the word. Any word. And I stop. No questions, no guilt, no consequences. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Say it back to me."
"If I want to stop, I say the word. Any word. And you stop."
"Good girl."
Something flares in her eyes at the words, and then she's kissing me.
Her mouth is soft and desperate. She kisses like she's been starving for this, like she's forgotten what it feels like to want something and reach for it. I let her set the pace for a moment, let her take what she needs.
Then I take control.
My hand slides from her jaw to the back of her neck, fingers threading through her hair, gripping just enough to tilt her head where I want it. She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, deepening the kiss until I can taste the coffee she had this morning, the sweetness underneath, the sharp edge of need. Not rough. Not demanding. Just firm. Present. Showing her what it feels like to be held without being trapped.
Her whole body shudders against mine. Her hands clutch at my shoulders, then slide up to my neck, her nails dragging lightly against my skin. The touch shoots straight down my spine. She makes a sound in the back of her throat, something between a whimper and a moan, and it nearly undoes me.
I want to press her against the wall, pin her there with my hips and feel every inch of her body against mine. I want to slide my hands under her shirt and learn the topography of herskin. I want to feel her come apart under my hands, to show her what surrender looks like when it's given freely instead of taken by force. The wanting drowns out everything—the office, the bar beyond, the threat circling closer—until there's nothing left but the taste of her and the heat of her body and the soft, desperate sounds she's making against my mouth.
But this isn't the moment. Not here, not like this, not when she's running on adrenaline and anger and years of accumulated pain.
I break the kiss, breathing hard, and rest my forehead against hers.
Her hands fist in my shirt. "Will."
