"Walk you home?"
"I'm fine—"
"Walk you home." Not a question this time. A statement.
I should say no. Should tell him I need space, that I'm being professional, that this is exactly what I shouldn't do.
But there's something different in his voice. Something raw. The mockery is gone. The professional polish is gone. There's just this—this heat in his eyes that makes my pulse jump.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
We walk.
Silently.
Snow falling around us in fat, lazy flakes that catch in my hair and melt on my cheeks. My breath comes out in white clouds. Him matching my pace exactly—step for step, like we're synchronized—and I notice this even though I'm trying not to notice anything about him.
One streetlight. Two. Three.
The silence is heavy. Not comfortable. Not the kind of quiet that comes when two people are at ease. This is the kind of silence that feels like a living thing between us. Breathing. Waiting.
Four streetlights. Five.
"Who was he?" His voice breaks the silence, and it's rougher than usual. Strained.
"Who?"
"The man. At the café. Who was he?"
"Warren?" I glance at him, but he's looking straight ahead, his jaw tight. "He runs the GED program at the community center. I helped with his classes last year."
"You were laughing."
“He was telling me about—”
"And you touched his arm."
I stop walking. "What?"
He stops too. Turns to face me. And his expression—
The mask is gone again. Completely gone. And what's underneath is something dark and barely controlled. His hands are in his pockets, but I can see them clenched into fists, can see the tension in his shoulders, can see the way his chest rises and falls with each breath
like he's been running.
"You touched his arm," he says again, and his voice has gone very quiet. Very controlled. Like he's holding something back with effort. "You were relaxed with him. Easy. You laughed at his jokes. You leaned forward when he talked. And you’ve never been like that with me.”
"That's different—"
"How?" The word comes out sharp. "How is it different?"
"Because Warren is just—he's just Warren. He's safe—”
“While I’m not?”
I look at him helplessly. “Do you really not know the answer to that?”
We stand there in the falling snow. Five feet between us. Maybe four. I'm counting without meaning to, and I hate that I'm counting, hate that even now my brain is measuring the distance.
