Page 71 of Falling Off Script

My spine locks.

He’s still watching me. Not scanning—just knowing. Like he can sense the blood rushing to my throat without needing to look.

I keep my voice steady. Almost.

“Have I?”

He nods. “Go ahead. Tell me how this one ends.”

Then—very gently—he reaches out and brushes a strand of hair away from my cheek. Just a touch, barely there.

But I feel it everywhere.

The silence after that is louder than it has any right to be.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do I.

My feet forget how to work.

His eyes stay on mine. Cool. Certain.

I should say something.

Anything.

A joke. A deflection. A verbal grenade.

Instead, I stand there like someone’s unplugged my entire personality. Like a woman who’s just been invited into her own fantasy.

His hand is already gone, but my skin still buzzes where he touched me. My breath feels shallow.

His eyes are still on me—steady, unreadable, but heavy with something I can’t name without blushing.

He doesn’t move.

Not forward. Not back.

He doesn’t have to.

I’m already unraveling.

"Say it," he says softly.

The words hit like an echo from a dream I haven’t admitted to yet.

"Say what?"

He tilts his head. “Whatever it is you’re not saying.”

I swallow. Hard.

What I’m not saying is:

I dreamed of your mouth.

I dreamed of giving in.

---