“I’m sorry,” she says. She takes another step back, her eyes falling to the floor. “You’re right. That was weird of me. I’m weird.” Her voice cracks on the words, and they emerge broken from her lips. “I’m genuinely very sorry. It won’t happen again—” “Stop,” I say, frustrated. I’m melting, just like I suspected I would, but it’s happening in an unexpected direction. It’s her words, the look on her face, that have my sharp, icy edges succumbing to warmth—not the press of her body or the velvet of her tongue. “That’s not what I mean,” I say, pushing my hand through my hair and scowling when I’m
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