Angel:Because once I walk in there, everything changes. Everything ends or begins and there's no middle ground.
She's right. I can feel it too—that precipice moment where you either jump or walk away forever.
Bet you're tiny. Could lift you with one arm.
Angel:That's presumptuous.
That's physics. I'm 6'3". You're what, 5'2"?
Angel:5'3". And a half.
That half inch really makes a difference?
Angel:Every inch makes a difference. Ask any woman.
Fuck. This woman.
Let me see you.
Angel:You are seeing me.
Your face. Your eyes. Want to know if they're as dangerous as your voice.
Silence. One minute. Two. Three. My body's about to combust—heart rate probably 140, hands clenched to stop the shaking, that fight-or-flight taste of copper flooding my mouth.
The door opens.
Red dress. Dark hair like she's been running her hands through it. She's smaller than I imagined, curvier than her photos suggested, and absolutely fucking perfect. She doesn't look at me, walks straight to the counter like she doesn't know I'm here.
But I know it's her. Know it in my bones, in the way my body responds like she's gravity and I'm space junk caught in her orbit.
I see you.
She checks her phone, and I watch her smile. Small, private, dangerous.
Angel:Do you?
Red dress. Running shoes underneath it. Hands shaking slightly. Hair that looks like you've been pulling it. You're terrified and here anyway.
Angel:Maybe I'm someone else in a red dress.
No. You're you. You're perfect. You're also wearing running shoes with a sexy dress, which means someone smart told you to be ready to bolt.
She turns, finally. Looks right at me across the diner. Brown eyes that have seen too much—death, violence, the inside of bodies—but still manage to look amused. That crooked smile from her Instagram photo, except in person it's lethal.
Angel:Black leather, dangerous eyes, worth the betrayal.
Betrayal. Not risk. Betrayal. She's betraying someone by being here.
She doesn't move from the counter. I don't move from my booth. We just stare at each other across twenty feet of cracked linoleum and terrible decisions.
Come here.
Angel:No touching. My rules.
I won't touch. Swear on my sister's grave.
That's not something I say lightly. She must hear it in the text somehow because she stands. Smooths her dress. Takes one step toward me, then stops.
