“Where are we?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Just swings off the bike and starts walking toward a metal door in the corner.
Fuck, he’s going to kill me.
I take in a breath and follow.
He pulls out a key, unlocks the door, and gestures for me to go first.
“Ladies first?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.
“Something like that.”
I step through.
The stairwell is narrow, concrete, smells like mildew and old cigarettes. My footsteps echo as I climb.
He’s right behind me. Close enough that I feel his presence like heat against my back.
We reach a door marked with peeling numbers—304.
He reaches around me, unlocks it, and pushes it open.
“After you.”
I step inside.
The apartment is... not what I expected.
Clean. Minimalist. Exposed brick walls. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A kitchen that looks like it’s never been used. A couch that probably costs more than my rent.
“This is your place?” I ask.
“One of them.”
One of them…must be fucking nice.
He closes the door behind us, locks it. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home makes my pulse spike.
“Why am I here?” I turn to face him.
He shrugs off his jacket, tosses it over a chair. The ink on his arms is fully visible now; intricate some colorful, covering every inch of skin from wrist to shoulder. I catch glimpses of script, symbols, things I don’t understand.
“You patched me up,” he says. “I owe you.”
“You got me a job. We’re even.”
“No.” He moves closer. Not threatening. Just... deliberate. “We’re not.”
“Then what do you want?”
He stops inches away. Close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“It’s not what I want. It’s whatyouwant,” he says low.
My heart thrums.
He knows.
