“Magazine work. Features. Politics. Culture. Things people argue about online.”
He smirked faintly. “So, you start fights for a living.”
“I start conversations.”
“Same thing.”
I laughed.
God, this felt good. Easy. Effortless.
Dangerous.
“You,” I said lightly, “do you always show up places bleeding?”
“Only on special occasions.”
“Should I be worried?”
“About me?”
“About being seen with you.”
His gaze slid slowly over me, deliberate.
“If you stick around me long enough, yeah. Probably.”
Instead of scaring me, the answer thrilled something reckless inside me.
Rose had come here and chosen a life outside safe expectations.
Maybe this was part of it.
Choosing what felt alive.
I leaned back in my chair, studying him openly now.
He noticed.
“Still staring.”
“You’re very good-looking.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“You’re very direct.”
“I’ve wasted a lot of time being polite.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, meeting his eyes, “I guess I go after what I want.”
Silence.
The air between us tightened.
“And what do you want?” he asked quietly.
