A dizzy wave hits me. My knees wobble.
Red's palm wraps around my upper arm, firm and grounding. He pins his eyebrows together and orders, "Let's stand still for a minute."
"I'm fine," I breathe, my pulse throbbing in my neck and my hands shaking. "I'm just excited."
"Excited about what?" he asks, voice too careful.
I stare up at him. I shouldn't say it. But I want to. I want to watch his face when I do.
"You," I whisper.
His jaw flexes. "Blue?—"
"Admit you care about me," I murmur, leaning closer and inhaling his scent. I close my eyes briefly, rattling off, "You walked me home. You didn't have to. You could've just sent an Uber or something. But you didn't. You came with me."
"I came with you because you're not well," he says gently. "You need support right now."
"From you," I correct softly.
He looks away for one second, the war inside him all over his expression. But he can have his guilt and fear. It won't stop the pull between us.
My chest blooms with heat. I demand, "You do care about me. Admit it."
"Of course, I care about you. I'm very worried, too," he adds.
"Thank you for telling me that," I say, then grab his hand and lunge toward my building.
"Whoa! Slow down, Blue," he orders.
I steer him toward the elevator, not noticing any of the security guards or my neighbors. No one matters, only Red.
We get into the elevator, and I press the button. I lean against him, happy, and yawn.
"You need sleep," he reiterates.
"I'm fine," I declare, smiling up at him.
The elevator dings, the doors open, and I rush toward my apartment. I fumble inside my purse, trying to find my keys, but my hands tremble. I shakily pull them out.
Red takes them calmly and says, "Let me do this."
"Okay," I agree, beaming.
He unlocks the door for me and pushes it open. When he steps inside behind me, I swear my heart detonates.
I imagined this a thousand times. Red in my home, closing the door, and looking around my space like he's memorizing it.
This moment feels like everything I've been waiting for is finally beginning.
He scans the room, taking in my couch, my table, my walls, not judging but with the same worried expression. The tightness in his shoulders doesn't ease. The thought that he's worried about me, personally, intimately, makes another wave of energy pulse through me. It's bright, dizzying, and utterly addictive.
I blurt out, "It's clean. I scrubbed it all night."
He steps closer, softly asking, "Blue, how are you feeling right now? Really."
I swallow, trying to force my voice not to shake with excitement. "I'm happy you're here."
"That's not what I asked."
