"Can I kiss you?" I asked, smiling like I had nothing to lose.
He didn't answer out loud. He watched my lips and then tilted his head, patient and unreadable.
"You're making a joke." I laughed. The laugh came out sharper than I intended.
He lifted his hand and tapped the glass of whiskey on the table. The clink was small, precise.
"You're not drunk," he mouthed, slow so I could read every shape.
"I can stop," I said, hands busy with the hem of my dress. "I just—" I stepped closer on impulse, because I had rehearsed this moment a dozen times in my head. Ten years had taught me every angle. Tonight I would change the angle.
He didn't step back. His eyes pinned me like a photograph.
"Can I kiss you?" I tried again, lower, softer.
He smiled then. The smile held nothing sweet. He moved like someone who had measured every inch of a room and still owned the last inch.
The room smelled like hotel soap and lemon polish. The city lights bled through the curtains.
"Please," I said. It was ridiculous. I could see it on my face. I didn't care.
He turned his head and let his lips shape the words.
"You begged me last night."
Silence slammed into me.
My mouth went dry. My rehearsed lines dissolved into a single, stupid sound: "What?"
He said it again, with the same slow, deliberate precision. His jaw worked. His