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𝙽𝚘 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐

There was a quiet sort of courage in making the first move, in choosing to cross the invisible line between pretending and meaning it. She hadn't expected that kind of certainty to feel so terrifying. Her whole life, she had been careful with her feelings, precise with her risks. But that night, with her heart pounding and fear clinging to the edges of her ribs, she stepped forward anyway. She didn't know what scared her more: the possibility that he might not feel the same, or the weight of what it would mean if he did. But what mattered was that she didn't hold back or wait for a sign. She let herself want something out loud.

What surprised her most wasn't that she made the move. It was that he caught her when she did. No retreat, no guarded half-smile or polite letdown. Just him, there, answering with his hands, his mouth, his whole body like he'd been waiting for her to be ready. He didn't ask her to explain. He just let her in. And it wasn't just desire or timing or heat between them, it was something steadier, something that didn't crumble under the weight of silence. For the first time since this entire arrangement began, she didn't feel like a guest in someone else's story. She felt wanted, and not for the role, not for the contract, but for exactly who she was when the script fell away.

She didn't know what would come next. She wasn't pretending otherwise. Life would still press in. People would still talk. Stories would still twist. But for the first time, she wasn't stuck in a place of doubt. She had crossed the line she'd been tiptoeing for quite some time, and he hadn't turned away. That changed everything. She could feel it now, humming under her skin: she hadn't made a mistake. She had opened a door and he had stepped through it with her.