[CAMI]
As Zeke walks off, I pretend I’m not watching the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders—how each step makes the muscles in his back shift, flex, ripple like a threat.
Wearing me out is his privilege, huh?
My lip twitches.
I reach up, my fingertip brushing the tender bruise he left there. It's still sore. Still buzzing with memory. His mouth. That wall. His fingers tracing my spine. The growl in his throat when I pressed my lips against his.
I blink, catching myself. My hand drops immediately, pretending to adjust the napkin in my lap like that was my plan all along, when I realise Vivienne’s watching.
Her gaze on me feels different. She’s assessing me now—really assessing me—with the cool, practiced detachment of someone who’s done it a hundred times before.
She leans f
