Page 79 of This Life of Mine

“Everything else?” I ask, repeating him.

He scrutinizes me, calculating the situation. With unmistakable control, he says, “We stop here.”

I swallow, looking him up and down. “Probably wise.”

But neither of us moves right away.

The moment stretches—warmth, breath, awareness humming under the surface. I can see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way restraint isn’t effortless for him either. That somehow makes it worse, or better. Both.

“Same time tomorrow?” I ask, teasing, because teasing seems safer than admitting how aware I am of him.

His smile is slow. Controlled. “We’ll see if you survive tonight’s tenderness first.”

“I’m confident,” I admit.

“I’m experienced,” he counters.

I grin. “I like that in a teacher.” The flirting is fully on display tonight.

His gaze lingers—questionable intent. Then he steps back, giving us both space before the moment tips into something neither of us is ready to name.

But the pull remains. Undeniably so.

I duck into the locker room to grab my things, moving slower than I need to, letting my pulse drop back into something resembling normal. When I sling my gym bag over my shoulder and step back out, the place is quiet and empty.

Alex is waiting near the entrance, leaning against a pillar.

“I was thinking,” he says, casual enough to pretend it’s an afterthought, “I should probably make sure you get to your car okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

He casts his eyes on me. “I know. Humor me.”

I sigh, already smiling.

“Fine.” I shift the strap of my gym bag higher on my shoulder.

We step outside together, the night air cooler than before, and still, the parking lot is empty. Our footsteps echo softly, and my legs are already registering complaints they plan to escalate by morning.

I’m mid-thought—something about how quiet it is—when the weight on my shoulder suddenly disappears.

“What the…”

I turn in time to see my bag swinging casually from my shoulder to Alex’s hand.

He simply takes it, making the gesture feel so natural I barely register it.

“Hey,” I protest automatically, reaching for it. “I’ve got it.”

He steps out of reach, easy at that, because I’m a shrimp next to him.

A slow smirk tugs at his mouth. “I know.”

Something about that smirk—lazy, confident, unapologetic—does something deeply inconvenient to my pulse.

“I can carry my own bag,” I add, because apparently dignity is important.

“I’m sure you can,” he says easily. “But I already have it.”