Axel picked a booth in the corner, slid in, and let his back rest against the wall. I sat opposite, already regretting the vodka but too stubborn to admit I was out of my depth.
He studied the menu with the intensity of a bomb defuser, then ordered two coffees and a stack of pancakes with extra syrup. “Trust me,” he said. “Best thing on the menu.”
The silence stretched. I watched the window, saw the reflection of the Waffle King crown hovering over his head like a joke. He caught me staring.
“What?”
I shrugged, pretended I wasn’t fascinated by the way his knuckles were already turning purple. “Nothing. You just look like you belong here.”
He arched an eyebrow. “In a booth? Or in the middle of a crime scene?”
I smiled. “Both.”
He sipped his coffee, then set it down. “You always let strange men buy you drinks?”
“Only when I’m feeling self-destructive.”
He nodded, like that made perfect sense.
I picked at a sugar packet, torn between telling him to fuck off and never leave. Instead, I said, “You get beat up like that often?” I nodded at his hands, the cut still oozing on his right thumb.
He looked down, flexed his fingers. “It’s a hobby.”
The waitress brought the pancakes, set them in front of us with two forks, then disappeared. The smell was obscene—sugar and butter, a heart attack in three layers. He dug in, and I followed, surprised at how good it was. We ate in silence for a while, and the world outside faded away.
Finally, he said, “So what’s your deal?”
I laughed, nearly choking on the syrup. “My deal?”
“You’re the only person in that bar who didn’t look scared. Or disgusted.”
“I’m not easily impressed.”
He leaned forward, voice low. “You’re running from something.”
“Aren’t we all?”
He waited.
I toyed with my fork. “I come to places like the Beaver because nobody there expects me to quote scripture or smile pretty for the congregation.” My voice was smaller than I wanted. “They just let me be.”
He nodded, chewing that over. “Your dad—he really is an asshole.”
“Yep.”
“He finds out we’re together, he’ll kill one of us. Not you.”
I rolled my eyes. “He says that about every guy I’m around.”
Axel grunted. “This time he’s serious.”
I looked at him, at the blue-black bruises blooming on his jaw, the way his eyes never stayed still for long, and I felt a pang so sharp it almost made me sick.
We sat there, watching each other, neither of us willing to blink first.
After a while, I reached into my bag, found a napkin, and dabbed at the blood on his hand. He let me, didn’t say a word, just watched my face like he was memorizing it.
The clock on the wall clicked past one. The waitress was stacking chairs, giving us the hint.
