He's not going to sit on me. That's ridiculous.
But I shift anyway, pressing myself into the corner of the oversized chair, making room.
Bane drops onto the other side.
The chair is big—meant for two, probably, or for one person who wants to sprawl—but he's big too. Our shoulders are inches apart. I can feel the heat radiating off him. Smell him—amber and sandalwood and something sharper underneath. Sea salt, maybe. Fresh and clean.
My pulse kicks up.
What is he doing? Why is he sitting here? Why isn't he being cruel?
Bane opens his book and starts reading like this is completely normal. Like he didn't just voluntarily put himself in my space. Like we're just two people sharing a chair in a library.
I stare at him.
He ignores me.
Minutes pass.
The silence isn't awkward, exactly. It's more... charged. Like there's something building in the air between us, something neither of us is willing to acknowledge.
My eyes drift to his hands. Long fingers. Clean nails. The way they hold the book—firm but not gripping. Controlled.
I think about Zero's hands. The way they grabbed. Bruised. Took.
Bane's hands are different. Steadier.
I don't know why I'm thinking about his hands.
"You're staring."
I jerk my gaze away. "No, I'm not."
"You are." He doesn't look up from his book. "It's weird."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just stop."
I stare at the opposite wall instead. Try to breathe normally. Try not to think about how close he is or how he smells or how this is the longest I've been in the same room as him without wanting to cry or scream.
"Why are you being nice to me?"
The question escapes before I can catch it. Blunt. Desperate.
Bane's page-turning pauses.
"I'm not being nice."
"You're not being cruel. That's an improvement."
He's quiet for a long moment. Long enough that I think he's not going to answer.
"I said some shit I shouldn't have," he finally says. His voice is low. Still not looking at me. "At dinner. After."
"You mean when you told me I was nothing?"
"Yeah." The word is tight. "That."
