"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