He looks at me, and something in his gaze softens just a fraction. “You don’t need to think about that anymore.”
“Because you fixed it for me?” I shoot back. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to.”
He doesn’t take the bait. He just pulls out a chair and sits, unfolding the papers with precise fingers. “Sit down, Kira.”
I roll my eyes but grab a glass from the counter, filling it halfway with the cheap whiskey I keep for nights when the world feels too heavy. I pour him one too, slide it across the table without asking.
He takes it, nods once in thanks, then gestures to the chair across from him. “Now sit.”
I drop into the seat, pulling my hair loose from its tie, too drained to argue. The heat from the drink burns on the way down. He watches me for a moment, then reaches for his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Ordering food.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat,” he says without looking up.
The line of his jaw is set, his voice calm but final. I don’t bother arguing. A few minutes later, he sets the phone down. “It’ll be here in twenty.”
I mutter something under my breath, but he ignores it and picks up the papers again. “Let’s finish.”
“Honestly, I’m not exactly in the mood for a quiz.”
“Then fake it,” he says, tone dry. “It’s good practice.”
I glare at him across the table, but he only looks more relaxed, rolling his glass between his fingers. The whiskey glows amber in the lamplight, catching on the faint scar near his wrist.
I glare at him across the table, but he’s already scanning the next line on the sheet in front of him, the edge of his cuff brushing the paper. The room is quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the faint sound of wind hitting the balcony door. He’s sitting too comfortably—ankle resting over his knee, pen balanced between his fingers like he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Question twenty-three,” he says without looking up. “Favorite movie.”
I sigh, leaning back in my seat. “You really want to know?”
“I have to.”
“The Notebook.”
That finally earns my favorite look from him—a slow lift of one eyebrow. “Predictable.”
“Excuse me for having feelings,” I mutter.
He makes a small sound, halfway between a laugh and a scoff. “Try harder,” he says, flipping to the next page. “First kiss.”
I shift, folding my arms. “What about it?”
“Where.”
“In a car,” I say. “Outside of a party. I was sixteen. It was awkward.”
His gaze lifts then, steady, curious in a way that makes my skin warm. “Who?”
“None of your business.”
He smiles faintly. “It is now.”
I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Unbelievable.”
