But I’m trying. For him.
I could just take him instead. Lock him in my place where he’d be safe, protected, mine. Keep him there until he understands there’s nowhere on this Earth he can hide from me.
The thought fills me with quiet satisfaction. But that would scare him. He’s not ready yet.
So I’ll keep pretending. Keep letting him think he has a choice in this. For now.
I’ve never done this before. Never wanted to. The times I fucked women, I had to make myself do it. Had to close my eyes and pretend. Women who didn’t ask why I was so detached, why I never looked at them. Get it done, get out. No names, no pancakes, definitely no furniture shopping.
Just evidence I wasn’t what my family would kill me for being. I learned that lesson young given what happened to my mother’s twin brother for loving another man.
We open the bags. I slide some pancakes onto his plate, then mine, and hand him the syrup. He cuts into them and lifts the fork, bites down, closes his eyes for a second and lets out a low, satisfying moan.
I wonder if he’d moan the same way if I put my tongue on him. If I’d get to taste every fucking sound.
I shove the thought down.
“I think we own the same soap,” he says, chewing, smiling at his plate. “You smell like coconuts and lime.”
I look at him. “Da. Very strange coincidence.”
He hums, amused, and takes another bite. I stab into mine and chew. I get it now. I get why he’s obsessed with this place. These pancakes are ridiculous.
“I’m not very good at this,” I admit.
He shoots me a curious look. “At what?”
“Talking.” I pause, struggling to find the words. This is harder than I thought it would be.
“Why not?”
Because the more someone knows about you, the more power they have.
“I don’t know.” I look at him. “But I’m trying. With you.”
His expression softens. “That means a lot. Really.”
I nod, not sure what else to say. This is new territory. Uncomfortable. But I don’t want to stop.
“Did you have the stitches removed yet?” He asks.
I shrug. “I took them out myself.”
He looks at me like I’m insane, shakes his head, and takes another bite of his pancake.
“Kelly.”
He glances over, mouth still half full.
“Do I scare you?”
He chokes. Actual cough, mid-chew, like I just hit him in the throat. He scrambles for his drink and takes a few gulps, rubbing the corner of his eye where it’s watering.
“Jesus,” he mutters, still coughing. “What a conversation starter.”
I need to know. I need to understand how much truth he can handle before he sees the real me, and it scares him enough to run. Not that he could get far. I would always find him.
He clears his throat again and sets the cup down. “When you pointed a gun at me, yeah. I was scared. At the club too. It was a little weird how you just knew where I lived.”
