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“Usually?” Her eyes narrow with interest as I pick up a cinnamon roll. “Were you thinking about me?”

I nearly inhale the pastry. “You do that deliberately.”

“Ask questions?”

“Wait until my mouth’s full.”

Nora watches me over the rim of her mug. “You don’t have to answer.”

That should make it easier not to, but somehow, it doesn’t. “Yes, I was thinking about you.”

Her eyebrows rise into her hairline, and a flush creeps into her cheeks.

I turn toward the sink before I say something else I can’t take back. I can feel her watching me while I finish the cinnamon roll, and the worst part is that I no longer want her to stop. I like her in my kitchen. I like seeing her mug next to mine. Like the way she draped her cardigan over the back of the chair when she walked in.

The wolf likes it too. He isn’t pacing or clawing for control. He’s quiet beneath my skin, watchful and satisfied simply because she’s close.

I reach for the second cinnamon roll at the same moment Nora does. Our hands meet, her fingers warm beneath mine. When she looks up, the room seems to contract around us.

Her breath catches softly as I turn my hand and lace our fingers together. My thumb moves over the base of hers. It’s absurd that this feels more dangerous than shoving her against a wall and kissing her senseless, but there’s nothing accidental about it. Nothing I can blame on instinct or heat or surprise.

I’m holding her hand because I want to.

Nora glances down at our joined hands, then back at me. Her fingers tighten around mine, and my wolf pushes closer, eager but calm.

My wolf?

I release her hand. Nora notices the retreat but doesn’t call me on it immediately. She lifts her coffee instead, watching me over the rim.

I grip the edge of the counter and look away. Behind me, her mug touches down on the wood. Then I hear her footsteps. She stops close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body at my back without actually touching me.

“I meant what I said yesterday. That I want you.”

Every muscle in my body tightens. “Nora.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything.”

That makes me turn. “What are you asking?”

Her face tilts up toward mine, expression open and steady. “For you to stop deciding what I can handle before I’ve had the chance to decide for myself.”

“This isn’t about what you can handle.”

“Then what is it about?” Her gaze searches my face. “The wolf?”

The old response rises automatically.

The wolf is dangerous. He doesn’t understand limits. He wants too much.

But Nora’s words from yesterday cut across all of it.

You don’t get to decide which parts of you I’m allowed to like.

“He doesn’t understand limits the way I do,” I say finally.

She thinks about that rather than dismissing it. “Does he ignore them?”

“No.” The answer comes too quickly to be anything but true.