Hank should pull back. The thought flashes through his mind. He also should laugh this whole thing off. Make another joke. Put enough space between them before this turns into something neither of them can pretend away with anymore.
Instead, he stays exactly where he is. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her. Close enough that every time she breathes, it drags his attention right back to her mouth again. And Christ, it’s becoming a problem. Because Lake looks at him like she knows exactly what she’s doing to him or what he's thinking.
His restraint frays another inch. “You have any idea,” he murmurs intimately, voice rougher than its ever been around her before, “how hard you’re makin’ it for me to keep bein’ the responsible one here?” There’s a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, but it’s strained by the honesty underneath his words.
His hand finally moves — slow enough that she can stop him if she wants to — resting lightly against her knee beneath the bar. Nothing super inappropriate. It's barely even possessive. But the second he touches her, his jaw tightens. Because that somehow makes it worse. Better? Hell, maybe it's both.
His thumb shifts once against her knee, absentmindedly, like he’s testing the reality of it. “You leaning in close, whispering things like that to me?” he whispers quietly, eyes locked on hers. “Feels like you’re tryin’ to see exactly where my breaking point is, if I'm bein' honest.” The most dangerous part? He's certain she's found it. And, he isn't the least bit upset about it. If anything, he sounds fascinated by the fact that she’s located it at all.
For a second he just watches her again, conflict written all over his face along with any restraint he’s barely hanging onto. Summer’s face flashes briefly through his mind. As if to represent every reason why this is so complicated. Or why they should slow down.
Hank exhales sharply through his nose as he tries to. But ultimately, gives in before he can talk himself out of it. His hand slides from her knee to the side of her leg, steadying her toward him as he leans in the rest of the way. It's not rushed, or sloppy but intentional.
Like, maybe he’s thought about kissing her for weeks now and finally ran out of reasons not to. His thumb brushes once along her skin. Hank knows that, if he goes in for the kill and kisses her here, he’s done for. Not because it would be bad. But, because it would be too easy to forget where they are. The bar’s already faded into background noise — the music's gone low, glasses clink somewhere far off, people move around them without either of them noticing anymore. Lake’s leaned in close enough that he can feel the warmth of her breath still when she talks, and every instinct in him is pulling toward her. Toward trouble. Toward more.
Jesus. “You really don’t play fair,” he mutters, giving in entirely. But there’s no heat behind it. If anything, he sounds halfway gone already. His eyes flick down to her mouth when she smiles at him — all soft and full of confidence and nervously curious at the same time — and for one dangerous second he nearly closes the distance anyway.
He wants to. God, does he want to. But instead, Hank retracts his hand to drag it down over his jaw while leaning back just enough to stop himself before his restraint snaps clean in half. His gaze stays fixed on her however, dark and conflicted and wanting in a way he’s stopped being able to hide.
Because this isn’t harmless anymore. Not to him. “C’mere,” he says quietly after a beat, standing before he can overthink it. He tosses enough cash on the bar to cover both their drinks and reaches for her hand almost instinctively once she slides off the stool beside him. His fingers wrap around hers— warm and solid, like he’s been trying not to do that for weeks now, too. “If I stay sittin’ here with you lookin’ at me like that any longer,” he whispers low enough for only her to hear, “I’m gonna do somethin' I can't take back in the middle of this bar.” His thumb brushes against the back of her hand once before he starts guiding her toward the door.
The night air outside hits cooler than before, but it doesn’t help much. Not when she’s walking beside him. Not when he can still feel the ghost of her knee pressed against his under the bar. What on earth was she doing to him?
The walk to his truck feels shorter this time. More charged. Hank opens the passenger side door for her automatically, one hand braced against the frame while she climbs in. For a second he just stands there, looking at her under the streetlights — pretty and flushed and entirely too tempting for his peace of mind. “You sure about this?” he asks quietly, before taking off. Not because he’s uncertain but, because he wants her answer to be sober and real.