I stop circling and face him. I could keep going like this all day—trading jabs, watching him fight that smile—but I need an answer, and we both know I’m not leaving without one.
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Avoid me. Make jokes. Run away every time I try to have a normal conversation with you.”
His face changes. For a second, he looks almost vulnerable, and my chest does a painful little twist.
“I don’t run away,” he says quietly.
“You literally fled a town meeting.”
“That was... strategic retreat.”
“It was running away.”
“Fine.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it worse. “Maybe I run away. So what?”
“So why? What did I ever do to you?”
Ben is quiet for a long moment. The space heater clicks and hums. Somewhere outside, a truck rumbles past on the main road, tires crunching over ice. He’s looking at me, really looking, and there’s something raw in his expression that makes my chest ache.
“You didn’t do anything, Tessa.” His voice is rough, like the words are costing him something. “That’s not—” He stops. Runsa hand over his face, and I notice the way his fingers tremble slightly. “It’s not about you.”
“Then what’s it about?”
He doesn’t answer. Just stands there, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets now like he doesn’t trust them. The silence stretches, filled with everything he won’t say.
I should let it go. I should take the out he’s offering and move on to safer ground. But I’ve never been good at letting things go, and there’s something in his eyes that looks almost like pain.
“Ben—”
“The auction.” He cuts me off, voice flat. “That’s what you came here to talk about, right? So let’s talk about the auction.”
Right. The auction. I take a breath, trying to find my footing again.
“Please,” I say softly. “I need you.”
The words hang in the air between us. I meant the auction. Obviously I meant the auction. But his expression changes, his nostrils flaring once, twice. His pupils go darker, and I realize with a start that he’s scenting me. Smelling whatever my traitorous omega body is putting out right now.
“Are you gonna bid?” he asks.
I wasn’t expecting that. “What?”
“On Milo. At the auction.” His voice is carefully controlled. “Are you gonna bid on him?”
I blink. “Why would I—no. I never bid. Conflict of interest. I’m the organizer.”
“You never bid.”
“Never.”
His face goes blank. Just like that, the vulnerability is gone, replaced by that frustrating wall he throws up every time we get close to something real.
“Then no,” he says flatly. “I’m not doing it.”
“That doesn’t make any sense!”
