Green.
Not soft green. Not minty or mossy or whatever the hell poetry people say.
These are sharp. Vivid. The kind of green you’d find in dangerous places. Like venom, or warning labels.
He lifts a brow. “You are drunk. You should go now.”
I blink at him. Slowly. Even in my wine-marinated brain, I can tell he’s nothing like Evan.
Evan had soft eyes and a passive-aggressive way of saying “I’m just not ready” after six years of sharing a Netflix password.
This man?
He looks like he’snever been not readyin his life.
He’s taller than tall. Built like something mythological and designed to win wars. Black coat draped casually over one shoulder. Black dress shirt. Sharp jawline. Cold, green eyes that look like they’ve seen too much and cared too little.
His hair is dark, slightly mussed, andunfairly cinematic. He looks like he belongs in a European heist film. Or on a list of people the CIA officially denies knowing.
And here I am.
Comparing him to Evan.
While grieving Evan.
I’m the problem.It’s me.
“Yes… I should probably go,” I say, lifting my chin.
I try to stand. Immediately regret it.
The blanket tangled around me slips off one shoulder, my bare leg catches on the coffee table, and I do this awkward crab-waddle thing to regain balance. Smooth. Elegant. Just like I rehearsed.
He watches me like I’m a mildly interesting crime scene.
This is fine. Everything’s fine.
He still hasn’t said anything. Still just standing there like some terrifying statue carved by lust and murder.
I wobble, exhale a hiccup, and try again. “I’m not usually like this.”
His brow twitches.
“Okay. That’s a lie. I mean,I amlike this. Idocry when I drink. But only when I drink this much. And only when I get dumped.”
I stagger toward the couch, still clinging to the wine bottle like it’s my emotional flotation device. He doesn’t move to stop me. Doesn’t move at all.
He’s just… watching.
Which somehow makes it worse.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out, plopping onto the edge of the cushion. “God. I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m telling you this. You’re… Holy shit, you’re really hot, by the way.”
I laugh. A little too loud. It echoes off his very expensive-looking countertops.
He doesn’t react. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t blink.
Which only encourages me, obviously.
