“Three-point-seven-five quadrillion…
“That’s fate in a fuckin’ chokehold.”
It’s there, behind his eyes:
Type night, still burning.
“Nah,” he says quieter, gaze returning to me.
“Fate got you in the room.
“Fightin’ for you after? All me.”
The bones in my chest cave in,
trying to cover my heart’s ears from hearing it.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You might regret your twenty-eight night investment. I’m not easy. I disappear sometimes. Ask my car and all the miles I’ve racked up.”
I face the skyline, too ashamed to meet his eyes while admitting it.
The buildings stare back at me?—
glass-eyed, watching.
“Some nights, even my place turns on me.
“So I drive.”
“Drive? To where?”
“Anywhere. Nowhere. Everywhere. Wherever. Doesn’t matter. Too alone sometimes, but want everyone to fuck off. Go figure.”
“So…” he tosses his hand between us. “Homebody. But only when it’s your call.” He’s not guessing. He’s laying it out. “Youwant people close. But on your terms. You give just enough to keep ‘em around. Not enough to let ‘em in. And if someone gets too close…” He tips his head. “…you pull back. Put distance. Drive. Reset.”
He says it as if he knows me.
And none of it scares him.
I suck in a breath. “Yeah. That.”
“So, what you do for work?—
“it’s independent?”
I squint over at him. “You profilin’ me?”
He pops a blueberry,
smirking and not letting this go.
I finally tell him with a shrug, as if it's not the only reason I wake up every morning—“Okay. I'm a songwriter.”
He’s still as stone.
“Wait—hold up,” he breaks.
His brows raise, a smile cut in half by surprise.
