Page 54 of If He Hadn't Cheated
He moves closer, hands sliding into his pockets, eyes locked on mine. “I’m sorry about last night.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He tilts his head. “I let my emotions control me.”
“You were defending me.”
“I was defending something that’s mine.”
My breath catches.
He steps closer, close enough that his scent, his heat, the weight of his presence all press into me.
“Lana,” he murmurs, “I’m not going to apologize for wanting you.”
The words crash through me like a wave. Before I can respond, a gust of wind pushes my hair across my face. He reaches out and brushes it back, slow, gentle, knuckles grazing my cheek. A shiver runs down my spine.
“You’re shaking,” he says softly.
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His thumb lingers near my jaw. “Come here.”
He pulls me into his chest. Not possessively. Not urgently.
Tenderly.
Like he’s been waiting a long time to hold me this way. I sink into him, my forehead pressed to his collarbone, his warmth steadying the chaotic rhythm inside me.
When I finally pull back, my voice is small. “This… whatever this is… it scares me.”
His brows draw together. “Why?”
“Because I don’t know if you want something real, or if this is temporary for you. If I’m just?—”
“Stop.” His voice sharpens, not in anger, but in certainty. “You’re not temporary.”
I swallow, looking down. “Sebastian said you always wanted what was his.”
Knox exhales, steps closer, tilts my chin up gently. “I wanted you,” he says. “Not him. Not what he had. You.”
His words settle inside me like truth I’ve been starving for.
But they don’t silence the fear.
Not yet.
Later, work resumes. People stop whispering. Or maybe I just stop noticing. I stay late, because I always stay late. Knox stays too, though he pretends he’s not watching me through the glass walls of his office.
I’m packing up when I find something on my desk. A small note, written in his sharp handwriting.
Even when I can’t look at you, I’m thinking about you.
—K
I press the note to my chest, close my eyes, and inhale a shaky breath.
He’s pulling me closer. And I don’t know how to stop falling.
