He smiles, small and tight. “You know I did.”
I sip the wine, swirl it in my mouth, let him stew in the silence. “What would you have done with it?”
He shrugs, but the motion is defensive. “Reported it. I don’t care about the fallout.”
“You don’t care who gets hurt?”
He holds my gaze. “I care about the truth.”
I set the glass aside. “That’s noble, in a masochistic way.”
He huffs, not quite a laugh. “You sound like you’ve never met anyone who means what they say.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He’s right.
I push the conversation a little further. “Why are you still single?”
He seems genuinely confused by the question, then shrugs. “I guess I’m hard to be around.”
“Because you’re honest?”
He considers. “Because I’m… not good at the rest of it.”
“The rest of what?”
“Being vulnerable. Or, I guess, being wanted. Romance isn’t really my jam. I like computers, not emotions. They’re easy to control. Dating means I need to try understanding another human and I’m just not wired that way.”
The line hits me harder than expected. I glance away, pretending to study the wine’s legs in the glass.
He asks, softly, “What about you?”
I look back at him. “What about me?”
“Are you good at the rest of it?” He arches a brow, and for a second, the line between us blurs.
I feel the smile before I let it show. “I can fake it.”
He laughs. “That’s not the same.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
The next question is inevitable. “Have you ever been in love?” he asks.
“No.” The answer is too fast, too final.
He tilts his head, studying me. “Do you think you could be?”
I look at him, the openness of his face, the lack of guile. It’s so direct, it almost feels like an accusation. “Maybe,” I say. “But it would have to be on my terms.”
He nods, like he understands. “That sounds lonely.”
“It is,” I say. “But it’s safe.”
He leans back into the couch, finally letting himself relax. “That explains a lot.”
I laugh, low. “Does it?”
He looks at me, and his gaze is steady. “Yeah. You’re trying to figure out if I’m a threat, or just a nuisance.”
