He set his jaw. “You know that’s not—” But he didn’t finish.
I watched him take in the space, eyes jumping from my station to the waiting area to the old couch under the window. He drifted over, pulled the blinds, and then—because the world is nothing if not hilarious—he walked to the front door and locked it.
I didn’t say anything. I just let the silence hang there, like the breath before a punch. He leaned against the wall, arms folded, all the bravado drained out of him. The only thing left was nervous energy and the faintest trace of last night’s aftershave.
“Do you want coffee?” I asked. “Or are we skipping straight to the part where you tell me this was a mistake?”
He glared at the floor, then at me, then at the floor again. “We should probably forget what happened last night,” he said.
I let the words sit. “Should we?”
He made a frustrated sound, almost a laugh. “You know what I mean, McKenzie.”
“Do I?” I set the charcoal down, careful not to look away from his face. “Because I remember a lot of things about last night, and none of them feel like something I should forget.”
He ran a hand over his mouth. “Don’t. Please.”
“Why not?” I asked, letting my own pulse speed up. “Scared someone might find out you’re human?”
That got him. He straightened, stepped forward, trying to reclaim a little ground. “You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”
I shrugged. “Not all. Just the parts you keep trying to strangle.”
He took another step, closing the distance. “You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” I said, and this time I let a smile bleed in. “I know you’re here. I know you locked the door behind you.”
He looked at the lock, then back at me. “Habit.”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go with that.”
He shook his head, eyes dark and desperate. “We can’t—I can’t do this, Ransom.”
I stood, slow and deliberate, wiping the charcoal off on my jeans. “That’s not what you said last night.”
He flinched, but didn’t back up. “Last night was—”
“Real,” I said, crossing my arms. “It was real. Unless you’re going to stand there and tell me you didn’t want it.”
He tried to say something, but it stuck in his throat.
I closed the rest of the distance, just enough that he had to tilt his head up to keep eye contact. “Tell me you didn’t want it,” I said, quiet and dangerous.
He pressed his lips together, then shook his head, just once. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
I could smell the coffee on his breath, the clean sweat of a man who showered twice before coming here. His hands trembled, barely, so I caught his wrist before he could hide it.
“You’re not the only one who’s scared,” I said. “But I’m done pretending it’s nothing.”
He looked at my hand on his wrist, then at my face. “What are you saying?”
I leaned in, just enough to feel the heat off his skin. “I’m saying you don’t have to run from this. Not from me.”
He shook his head, but this time it wasn’t a no. “This is a terrible idea,” he said, voice barely a whisper.
“Probably,” I agreed. “But is that really what you want?”
He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw the answer.
