Chapter 5 Proposal
“We need to talk.”
He stood in front of me, voice disturbingly calm—like he was announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a bed the night before.
Talk?
My brain instantly began filtering keywords. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Or was he proposing some sort of... “long-term sexual partnership”?
Definitely not a proposal. That only happens in soap operas written by people with chronic romance brain.
Was he worried I’d cling to him?
After all—it was me who started this.
I was the one who dragged him out of the bar.
I was the one who opened the hotel door.
I was the one who pinned him down without a second thought.
“Look,” I said, adopting the most adult, accountable tone I could muster, “last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but... undeniably enjoyable mistake.”
I tried not to look at his shoulders. Not at his chest. Not at the water droplets sliding down his clavicle, tracing the path over sculpted muscle.