Chapter 3 The Man Who Looks at Me Like I'm Already Undressed

Tessa missed the last bus by six minutes. She stood at the stop beneath a flickering streetlamp, arms crossed over her chest, hoodie zipped up to her chin. The wind cut through the thin cotton like it wasn't even there. Her phone was dead. Her charger? Still plugged in at Nathan's. Of course it was.

She could walk home. Forty minutes, maybe more. But it was dark. And she didn't have it in her tonight-pretending she wasn't scared, pretending she was fine.

Tires sliced through the wet street and her breath caught. A sleek black car eased to a stop in front of her, headlights dimmed like it didn't need the attention. The window slid down slow.

Dorian Cross.

Because of course it was.

He didn't speak right away. He just looked at her like she was something pressed between glass and fire-visible, fragile, burning.

She hesitated.

"You're going to get sick," he said, calm, certain, like he hadn't expected anything else.

She pulled the hoodie tighter. "It's just wind."

"The wind turns into pneumonia when you've been wrung dry all week."

She blinked at him. "Did you follow me?"

"No. I just tend to be where my son isn't." He tilted his head slightly. "And yet, you're always where he is."

She didn't respond. She didn't need to. The truth of it already sat too heavy in her chest.

"Get in, Tessa."

Her name again. The way he said it-soft, deliberate, dangerous.

She should've said no.

But her fingers were already curling around the handle.

-

The car was warm. Too warm. Quiet, except for the low hum of classical music from the speakers. She sat stiff, hands in her lap, trying not to notice how close he was. How his thigh brushed against hers with every slight turn. How her skin reacted without asking her permission.

He didn't drive off immediately.

"Why do you let my son treat you like furniture?"

Her breath caught. She turned to the window, jaw tight.

"Is that what this is? A lecture?"

"No," he said. "It's a question."

Her hands balled in her lap. "Because he doesn't mean to. Because he's overwhelmed. Because... I thought if I was always there, maybe he'd finally see me."

"And has he?"

She didn't answer right away. "Why do you care?"

Dorian turned toward her, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually in the space between them-close enough to touch her thigh if he wanted to. He didn't. Not yet.

He just looked at her.

Not the way Nathan did when he remembered to. Dorian looked like he was reading her, mapping every fracture, every reason she stayed broken.

She shifted uncomfortably. "You're judging me."

"No," he said, his voice low. "I'm wondering how a girl who holds herself like a queen ended up kneeling for a boy who doesn't even know what it means to serve."

The words hit something deep. Something buried and bruised.

She blinked hard, staring at the dashboard.

He turned the key, started the car.

-

Rain tapped softly against the windshield. She leaned her head against the window, watching streetlights pass in blurs. Counting intersections. Pretending her pulse wasn't still thudding from the things he said.

Then her bag spilled.

Notes. Pens. The silver business card he'd given her weeks ago.

"Shit-hold on," she muttered, leaning forward between the seats to reach it all.

Her hoodie rode up slightly. She didn't notice. Not until his fingers brushed the small of her back.

A light touch. Barely there. Fingertips over cotton.

But it lit a fuse inside her like someone struck a match.

She froze.

His hand didn't move. But it didn't leave her either.

She shifted-subtle, instinctive-and felt the way his touch followed her.

She grabbed the pen. Sat up slowly.

The car kept moving.

Neither of them said a word.

The rain got louder.

Then-

"Pull over," she said, her voice almost breaking.

He didn't hesitate. Just turned, smooth and sure, and stopped under a streetlight.

The car idled. Her heartbeat didn't.

She looked at him. He was already watching her like she was the only thing in the world not blurred by rain and regret.

She leaned in, but stopped halfway.

"I don't know what this is," she whispered.

His hand rose, gentle, and traced a line under her jaw.

His thumb skimmed her lower lip. Her breath caught.

"You want me to stop?" he asked, voice lower, rougher now.

She should've said yes.

She didn't.

He leaned in close, his mouth brushing her ear.

"Say it," he murmured, warm breath against her skin.

She turned toward him, mouth so close to his they shared the same breath.

"I don't know what I want."

He didn't kiss her.

But he brushed her lip with his.

Once.

Then again.

Soft. Measured. Like he was learning the shape of restraint.

Her hand slid into his shirt without thinking. She moved before she could change her mind-half into his lap, knees straddling him.

The kiss deepened but never lost control. His hands stayed at her hips. Anchoring her. Not claiming. Not yet.

That made it worse. Or better. Or both.

Then he pulled back.

H

Breathless. Silent.

The streetlight painted them in something too real.

She was in his lap, heart thundering. His hands let go.

He gave her the space to leave.

She climbed off slowly. Adjusted her hoodie. Sat back in the passenger seat like nothing happened.

He didn't say a word.

He just started the car.

Outside her apartment, the rain had stopped but the tension hadn't.

He parked and kept his eyes forward.

She hesitated, hand on the handle.

"Don't overthink it," he said quietly. "It was nothing."

But it wasn't. And they both knew it.

She opened the door. Stepped out.

Didn't look back.

But she felt him watching her walk away.