Page 74 of The Rules
She couldn't help but relax as the evening unfolded around them like soft fabric. Joshua talked with his hands, laughing with his whole body, the sound deep and real. And when she spoke, he listened—not just nodded and smiled, butlistened, like every word she said mattered. Like she mattered.
It was easy. So fucking easy.
There were no sharp edges with him. No eggshells, no games, no heat coiled beneath the surface waiting to burn her.
Just warmth. Comfort. Steady presence.
She laughed—genuinely, freely, without needing to measure herself. With Joshua, she didn't feel like she had to perform.
She didn’t feel like a liability. Or a weapon. Or a girl hiding a thousand jagged pieces.
For a fleeting moment, she let herself believe this could be enough.
That Joshua—kind, grounded, good—was exactly what she needed.
That love didn’t have to come with fire and ache and the kind of tension that threatened to swallow her whole. That safety could be something shechose.
The check came. They left. His hand found hers as they stepped into the cool night.
Still charming, warm.
But the second the air hit her skin, it unraveled.
Because nothing inside her shifted.
No flutter. No ache. No slow, hungry pull.
She smiled, because she should. Because this was good.Right. Better than anything she had the right to expect.
But the smile felt rehearsed. And pretending… used to be easier.
Joshua was perfect. The night was perfect.
And she had no excuse—no reasonable, logical, adult excuse—for why this didn’t feel likeenough.
He walked her to her door—hands tucked away, smile disarmingly casual. He maintained a respectful distance. Never imposed. He embodied everything a woman should eagerly accept. Katherine appreciated that steadiness in him.
That undemanding warmth. This should feel natural.
When he leaned toward her—head tilting just enough to seek silent permission—she surrendered. His mouth claimed hers with calculated tenderness, each movement deliberately controlled. Technically flawless. The textbook definition of passion. Katherine's fingers clutched at his shirt front, searching for an anchor, hunting for conviction.
She eliminated the space between them, parting her lips beneath the pressure of his. His mouth tasted like whiskey and something warm. Familiar. Her pulse should quicken. Her skin should burn. Her form should dissolve against him as though crafted specifically for his touch. She silently commanded her body to respond, desperate for Joshua's gentle mastery to erase every scorching recollection, every illicit craving that haunted her darkest hours.
Yet her rebellious flesh recognized the distinction. Where Joshua offered tenderness, she hungered for the savage claim of demanding lips. Where he exercised patience, she starved for the desperate intensity that stole her breath. She craved the kind of kiss that left bruises. The kind that didn’t ask—just took.
Her center remained traitorously silent—no insistent throb awakening between her thighs, no heat gathering in her depths. Only the empty resonance of absence.
She pursued connection more fiercely, fingers twisting into his shirt, tongue seeking deeper possession. But Joshua withdrew first, his hazel eyes reflecting too much understanding, too much compassion. Truth suspended between them, palpable as smoke—no electricity, no conflagration, no primal hunger clawing through her ribcage. Only the polite illusion they'd both desperately cultivated, disintegrating on her tongue.
This was supposed to be her revelation. Her turning point. Instead, it was the quiet collapse of every carefully constructed lie.
Kath parted her lips—searching for redemption? For something to say that could make this less true? The words dissolved before she could find them. Joshua gave her that gentle smile—no malice, no anger. Just quiet certainty.
No rage simmered beneath his surface. No ice frosted his gaze. Only... resignation.
"Yeah. That's what I thought," he murmured, voice like velvet over broken glass.
Something constricted inside her ribcage, squeezing until breath came thin. She couldn't name her transgression—or perhaps she simply refused to.
