Hunter watched Stacey's face closely, his throat tight, his pulse a wild, thrumming thing beneath his skin.
This wasn't just tension—it was annihilation. His nerves sang with it, a sharp, electric ache crawling up his spine.
He stumbled a step, his heart thrashing against his ribs like a caged animal, frantic, no longer knowing whether it wanted to break free or just break entirely. His lungs dragged in air, sharp and ragged, his chest wound so tight it hurt to stand upright.
He clenched his fists at his sides, trembling fingers curling and uncurling. His whole body screamed at him to reach out again. To seize. To clutch.
But he stayed where he was.
Barely.
No. Don't pull away now. Not now. Not when I'm this close.
That look on Stacey's face—wide eyes, parted lips, the first crack in the dam—that was what he lived for. That was the splinter, the fissure, the soft underbelly Hunter had been chasing for months.
Years.
Decades.
