"Know what?" His expression doesn't change.
"My work schedule. How I get home."
"You just told me. You're a nurse. Nurses work long shifts." He tilts his head slightly. "And you live in Hell's Kitchen. Nobody drives in the city. Subway's the obvious choice."
It sounds reasonable. It is reasonable.
Except I never said I work overnight shifts. Never said I take the subway at two AM. Never mentioned anything about my schedule at all.
"I didn't tell you any of that."
His smile is small, knowing. Like I've passed some kind of test.
"No," he says quietly. "You didn't."
He doesn't explain. Doesn't make excuses. Just admits it.
The shift in topic is deliberate, giving me space to step back from the edge of whatever this conversation was becoming. I should push. Should demand answers.
“I’d like to see your place sometime.”
The phrasing is casual, but there's weight underneath it. An assumption that there will be a "sometime." That this isn't the last time we'll see each other.
"Maybe," I say, which commits to nothing.
"I will," he says, and there's no maybe in his voice at all.
We talk for hours, and it's easy. Too easy. He asks about my work, my neighborhood, my favorite places in the city. I ask about his family, his apartment, what he does in his free time. The conversation flows like we've known each other longer than one chaotic night and an afternoon together.
But underneath the easy flow, there's another current. An intensity that never fades. He doesn't look at me—he studies, catalogs, memorizes. He angles his body toward me, claiming space, demanding I notice him whether I want to or not.
He touches my hand once, when I'm gesturing while telling a story about a patient who came in with a potato stucksomewhere it shouldn't be. His fingers close around my wrist—not grabbing, holding. The contact is brief but deliberate, and when he lets go, the phantom pressure of his grip lingers.
"You have beautiful hands," he says quietly.
I look down at them. They're nurse's hands—short nails, dry from constant washing, a small scar on my right knuckle.
"They're just hands."
"No." His voice goes rough. "They're the hands that saved my life."
The weight of that statement settles between us.
"I just do my job."
"You didn't have to protect me. You could have reported the gunshot wound. You didn't."
"I didn't know who you were."
"You knew I was lying." He leans forward. "You knew I was dangerous. But you helped me anyway."
"I help everyone."
"Not like that. Not by lying on hospital reports. Not by risking your job." His eyes are so dark they're almost black. "You saved me, Francesca. Now let me return the favor."
"I don't need saving."
"Everyone needs saving from something." He reaches across the table and his fingers brush my cheek—so light I might have imagined it except I can feel the heat of his skin. "Let me be the one who does it for you."
