She sat on the counter and asked, ‘What are you afraid of?

The kitchen was too warm, too still, too intimate for the kind of question she asked.
She hopped onto the counter like she owned it—feet dangling, fingers tapping the edge, watching me with that half-smile she knew made me restless.

I tried to ignore her.
Failed.

She leaned forward, her shoulder brushing mine.
“Tell me,” she whispered, “what are you afraid of?”

I laughed, because what else could I do?
But she didn’t laugh back.
She just kept watching me like she already knew the answer.

I didn’t want to tell her the truth—that I was afraid of this moment, the one where she sat close enough for her knees to touch my hips, close enough for her perfume to wrap around me, close enough to make me forget every reason I tried to keep my distance.

“Nothing,” I said.

She raised a brow.
“Liar.”

Her hand slid slowly down my arm, stopping at my wrist.
Not holding. Just… resting there.

The room felt smaller.
The space between us was gone.

“You’re not afraid of me,” she murmured.
“You’re afraid of what you feel when I sit this close.”

And she was right.
Terrifyingly right.

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