93● “You get to me,”

93● “You get to me,”
HARPER PETROVSKY

That hairline crack in him holds me more than it should, because Alexander always looks whole, always looks ready, always looks untouchable—and now I have a man in front of me choosing what to say, as if the wrong sentence could pry open something he doesn’t want opened.
I don’t step back, and I don’t lower my head. Not because I feel braver near him, with an intimacy I never thought I’d have with him, but because I’m tired of being led from one side to the other like a chess piece, of having to reshape myself to meet other people’s expectations.
I feel my chest tighten, my body too alert, and the worst part is that I feel his presence in every centimeter of air between us. He’s still close, still keeping me here, pressed to the vanity, as if this space were the only place where I can’t run inward, back into myself.
“You want a straight answer,” he says at last, low and unhurried.
“I do.”
He holds my gaze, moving even closer, tipping my body slightly back. The closeness turns suffocating, to the point of stealing my breath, and I can feel his heart racing. For a minute, I think he’ll go back to the topic of the Dome, that he’ll use my fragility, but he doesn’t. He only breathes and lets his own silence fall, as if accepting that I’ve seen too much for him to keep up the coldness he wears as protection.
“You get to me,” he says.
Just like that—no adjective, no stalling. And that’s why it hits hard, because I expected anything except the naked truth like this. My fingers clamp around the edge of the vanity on reflex, like I need to hold on so I don’t react too much, so I don’t give him the pleasure of seeing how much that got to me.
“And you say that like it’s… a problem,” I shoot back, trying to sound steady, but my voice slips at the end, making me swallow slowly.
Alexander lets out a low, rough laugh, the left corner of his mouth twitching.
“Because it is,” he answers. His gaze doesn’t soften. “I can’t afford to be driven by impulse—that’s what sets me apart from my brothers.”
“You’re cold, Alexander. You’ll never be like your brothers.” My voice comes out too firm, almost like I’m trying to convince myself. “Your control over everything matters more than anything, so relax… You won’t be driven by impulse.”
I hope the indifference I tried to fake satisfies him, that he’ll simply accept it and go back to talking about the ceremony, the envelope, the Dome—the way he always does. But he doesn’t. He goes quiet for a second—very brief. My gaze drifts to his jaw as it tightens, swallowing a reply he doesn’t want to give in the most obvious way.
“It sounds like a compliment,” he says at last, low, and there’s no irritation in his voice. “Especially coming from that bold mouth of yours. I’ve already said once that the way I handle things is different from what you’re used to. Don’t pay to find out.”
His threat should make me back off, shove me away, put me in my place the way he does with everyone when he wants to end a conversation. But instead, something in me lights up, as if he’s just admitted there is a limit—and that I’m too close to it for either of us to pretend there isn’t.
“I’m not afraid of you… I’m not afraid of your way of handling things.” My voice comes out steady, but I feel the vibration in my chest. I can’t let myself get carried away—not now. “If I get to you that much, why don’t you step away? You’re always finding a way to corner me, to keep me level with your eyes.”
I know that’s going to hit something inside him. Alexander doesn’t like being confronted like this—not because he can’t take it, but because he isn’t used to someone speaking to him that way, at that level, challenging him to give fuller answers instead of vague ones.
Alexander moves his hand slightly, lifting it to my chin, brushing his thumb there, barely touching, then sliding to the pulsing vein in my neck and making me hold my breath.
“Not afraid,” he repeats, low, testing the effect the words have. “Are you sure?”
I hate that my body reacts before my mind does. I hate it because he notices. I hate it because I notice too. I feel the heat climb into my face, feel the skin of my neck prickle exactly where his thumb lightly passes, as if he’s drawing an invisible line and saying without saying: I know where you feel it. And still, I hold his gaze.
“I am,” I answer, and my voice comes out firm enough not to betray me, even if the rest of me is more alert than it should be.
His eyes narrow a little, looking too interested, weighing whether this is too much courage coming from me or just stubbornness. He leans his face a little closer, making me feel his cool breath as he lets out a soft sigh through his lips, and it’s ridiculous, because it’s nothing—it’s just air—but it’s his, and it gets to me more than it should. His thumb stays there for one more second, and then it slides down, almost tracing the line of my pulse at my throat.
“Your body doesn’t agree with you,” he murmurs.
I swallow hard and feel the vein throb under his light touch, and that only makes me more irritated.
“My body is tired,” I snap back. “Tired of so much pressure, of people deciding everything. This has nothing to do with being afraid of you.”
He holds my gaze as if I’ve just offered an opening and he’s choosing whether to step into it or not. His hand doesn’t drop. The pressure doesn’t increase.
“If you want, I’ll step back, since you’re too tired for us to talk.”
He isn’t offering distance out of courtesy or respect for my physical and mental state; Alexander is testing me—and when he starts that, I know it becomes a path too torturous to resist.
His thumb leaves my neck slowly, as if he’s forcing himself to stop. His hand lowers, but instead of going away, he braces his palm on the vanity beside me, closing my space again. The difference is that now I can feel he’s doing it aware of the effect, not just out of habit. He’s choosing to keep me here.
“You’re not going to step back,” I say, my voice coming out lower than it should.
He lifts an eyebrow, as I’ve just made a bet.
“And how are you so sure?”
I swallow. My body is still tired, yes, but it’s the kind of tired that makes skin sensitive, that makes every detail bigger. His scent, his warmth, the weight of his stare—everything feels more present than it should.
“Because you don’t offer anything you aren’t willing to follow through on,” I answer. “And if you were willing to step back, you would’ve already done it.”
His gaze stays on me, then slides to some point behind me. He lets out a rough sound from his throat, along with a low laugh.
“You talk too much,” he murmurs.
“And you talk far too little.”
He leans in slightly, and the distance shrinks enough for me to feel his breath again, brushing my skin. A small step, but one that changes everything—because now I don’t know if I’m angry or if I’m… getting turned on.