The bag rustled between us. She started to step back, as if her job was done, as if she didn’t want to intrude.
I should’ve let her leave. She’d done what she came to do. Simple. Clean. Door closed. Day over.
But the words left my mouth before I could think. “Wait.”
She stopped, shoulders tensing, head turning back slowly. The elevator doors had already closed, but they slid open again with a soft hiss.
I cleared my throat, fingers tightening around the plastic bag. “The partner work… tomorrow, I don’t think I’ll make it.” The words tasted like defeat. “If you still need me to answer some questions for your psych thing, maybe—”
She blinked, lips parting just slightly, the faintest crease forming between her brows.
“Maybe we can do it now,” I finished, voice rougher than I meant. “I won’t be available tomorrow.”
For a moment, she just stood there, caught between the elevator and me. I could see her thinking, always thinking. Then she gave the smallest nod. Careful. Measured.
“Yeah?” I asked, just to be sure.
Another nod.
Something unknotted in my chest, not gone but looser. I stepped aside, shifting enough to hold the door open. She hesitated again, gaze flicking past me into my home. The lights were dim, the air still heavy with rain.
For the first time all day, the noise in my head faded, not completely, but enough that I could breathe again.
We headed towards the counter, and I placed the bag away as she sat down, pulling out her laptop. I dropped myself down next to her. I don’t know… felt like it.
“Same questions?” She shook her head. “Need time?” Again, she shook her head. She came prepared this time, though it was supposed to be tomorrow.
I guess she wanted to get it over with that badly. Like being near me for too long would corrode her.
But if she were acid, I’d let her burn me.
Maybe we’re just unknowingly burning each other. Toxic but addictive.
She turned the laptop slightly in my direction before pushing it right in front of me. The new set of questions blinked up at me, different from last week, more structured, more personal.
I started typing. The keys clicked quietly in the kitchen. Every few seconds, I’d glance up—habit, I guess—to check if she was okay, to make sure she didn’t look too bored.
But she was just doing her assignment next to me, legs swinging lightly off the counter, glancing over at my screen here and there like she was making sure I was answering right.
Then something changed.
Her posture.
She’d gone still, shoulders stiff, spine straightening just slightly as her eyes fixed on—
I glanced down.
My forearm rested on the counter, skin exposed under the sleeve of my t-shirt. The tattoos curled across it, black ink, jagged lines, phrases I’d pretended meant something deeper.
I looked at her face, thinking she was just admiring the art.
But no.
No one looks at art like that.
Concerned.
Worried.
