"Oh." Pickle's voice turned softer. "That's... actually kind of nice."
"He cares about you."
"Yeah, well." Pickle shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. "Hog cares about everybody. It's annoying. He's like a big knitted blanket that learned to fight."
I smiled briefly.
Pickle was different alone, in the dark, one-on-one. The energy was still there, buzzing beneath the surface, but his edges were softer. He wasn't filling every corner of the space. He was present.
I wanted to reach out and touch him. He was standing close enough for me to see the cold pinching color into his cheeks.
"Why are you really here?" I asked.
Pickle opened his mouth. Closed it.
"I don't know," he said finally. "I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about—" He gestured vaguely. "You had your camera on me all day. And I kept wondering what you saw. What it looked like. Whether I—"
He stopped.
"Whether you what?"
"Whether I looked like a joke."
The words were heavy, and it took me a moment to consider my answer.
"You didn't," I said.
Pickle's gaze met mine. Brown, I remembered from the first night. Brown and sharp and searching.
"How do I look?" The question came out in a whisper.
I thought about how he'd grabbed my sleeve at the bar like we'd known each other for years. The way he'd saidIt's not what it looks likewith a grin that had no shame in it, only delight.
I thought about all the dangerous things I could say.
"Like someone worth watching,"
Pickle's breath caught. Biscuit whined softly, pulling at his leash, but Pickle didn't look away from me.
"I should go," he said.
"Yeah."
"It's late."
"It is."
"Biscuit has a schedule."
"You mentioned."
Pickle took a step back. Then another. The distance between us widened.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he said. "At practice. I'll try not to fall on my face this time."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
He laughed—a real one.
