It was a dangerous question.
"Someone trying very hard to be what everyone expects," he said finally. "And someone else underneath. Someone scared those layers aren't enough."
My throat tightened. "That's a lot to see in three days."
"I told you. I'm good at watching."
The bartender cleared her throat. Keys in hand.
Outside, the cold hit my face like a wall. I shoved my hands in my pockets. Adrian stood close but not touching.
"Which way are you?"
"Hotel's left." He nodded. "You?"
"Opposite."
Neither of us moved.
"I should go," Adrian said. "Early morning."
"Yeah."
He still didn't move.
"Pickle." His voice was lower. Rougher.
"Yeah?"
"Goodnight." He shook his head and turned.
"Goodnight."
Adrian walked away. I watched him go and stood there in the parking lot until he disappeared.
Then I walked home. Eight blocks.
The chair was fixed. The bar was familiar.
Adrian was not.
And something inside me—something that usually filled every silence with noise—slowed down.
It wanted.
I let myself into my apartment and didn’t turn on the lights.
I stood there for a second, keys still in my hand, listening to the quiet press in from all sides. The kind that made room for thoughts you’d been successfully outrunning all night.
This was bad. He was leaving in a few days. He probably made everyone feel like the only interesting person in the room. That was his job. That was his trick.
It didn’t mean anything.
I told myself that while I kicked off my shoes, dropped my keys on the counter, and noticed the chair by the table sitting slightly off square.
I nudged it with my foot.
It didn’t wobble.
