Page 9 of One Room Vacancy
For a second, we just stand there. I kick off my heels, my toes sinking into the plush carpet. Gabe’s hands hang at his sides, fingers flexing and unflexing like he’s still deciding. Whether to speak, whether to stay, whether this is what he wants or what he’s just used to.
I should stop this. I know that.
Instead, I take a step toward him.
His eyes lock on mine like a magnet finding its pull. “Sage,” he says, and it’s not a question, not a warning—just my name, heavy with whatever this is between us.
“I know,” I whisper.
But I don’t touch him. Not yet.
The space between us is thin, but it hums just the same. That taut, electric kind of pressure that doesn’t need to be loud to feel dangerous. My pulse stutters at the base of my throat. Gabe shifts, barely—just enough that the fabric of his button-down rustles in the quiet. I catch a glimpse of the muscle in his jaw as it tightens, like he’s holding something back.
Not guilt.
Something heavier. Something careful.
“I don’t want to make this worse,” he says, voice low. “For you.”
I let out a dry little laugh, more scoff than sound. “What, you think this is me spiraling?”
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw clenches. “No. I think this is us…circling.”
He’s not wrong, but I don’t say that.
Instead, I lift my chin. “You’re not that powerful, Gabe. You’re not capable of breaking me.”
His gaze flickers—hurt, maybe, or admiration, I can’t tell.
“I don’t want to,” he says.
“Then don’t.”
Another beat of silence. I step closer, close enough to count his freckles. Close enough that if he breathes too hard, we’ll touch.
His fingers twitch again. Still flexing, still not reaching.
“Say it,” I murmur. “Whatever’s rattling around in that ginger head of yours.”
He looks at me like he’s torn between kissing me and bolting.
Then, finally—finally—he says, “I want you.”
That’s all I need.
I move first.
Just a breath closer, my hand lifting on instinct, fingertips grazing the front of his shirt, brushing the line of buttons like I’m not sure whether I’m smoothing fabric or testing the strength of whatever’s still holding me back.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t step away.
But he doesn’t reach for me either.
His breath stirs the curls by my temple. “Sage,” he says again—same tone, same weight, but this time it’s strained, like he’s fighting the part of him that wants to ruin this distance completely.
I look up at him, and I meanlook, really look, because I need him to see it in my eyes before either of us does something we can’t take back.
“I’m not drunk,” I say. “Just so we’re clear.”
