I shot to my feet and collected my things in a panic, but he uncoiled from the sofa right after me. And the awareness was swift.
I felt him at my back when I grabbed my scarf. I felt him in my blood when he sighed my name. I felt him in my bones when his breath kissed my neck. Six feet and several inches of imposing heat flowed out of him, making me weak ... dizzy. Except for the trembling, I couldn't move. Nothing seemed to work: not my arms, not my brain. The scarf slipped from my useless hands to the floor, forgotten.
"Stay," he whispered, looming behind me.
Fear squeezed my throat. "I-I can't--"
My eyes fluttered shut as he kneaded my shoulders. The weight of his hands, strong, yet gentle, made me melt.
His fingers slid down my arms to lace with mine. "Why'd you disappear on me?" he asked, his voice sandpaper rough.
I couldn't form a thought, much less a reply.
"Why?" he asked again.
My tongue finally unglued. "Something came up at--"
"You're lying," he murmured into my hair.
"Stop." When he tied our hands beneath my ribcage, I went boneless, and the back of my head rested against his chest. "You ran because you feel what I feel. That's why you're trying to run now. Admit it.""