Heat floods my face so fast I actually feel dizzy. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh." He shakes his head, but there is a smile tugging at his mouth now, amusement replacing the offense. "Not everything is a proposition, Bella. Sometimes a run is just a run."
"Right. Obviously. I knew that."
"Sure you did." His smile widens into something wicked. "But good to know where your mind went immediately. Very telling."
"Shut up," I mutter, turning back to the kettle which is now whistling aggressively.
"So," he says, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed over his bare chest in a way that should be illegal. "You want to come?"
"On a run," I clarify, just to be absolutely sure we are talking about the same thing.
"Yes, Rosalina. On a run. In Central Park. With our clothes on. Very innocent and non-sexual."
I should say no. I should stay here, drink my terrible instant coffee, and maintain whatever shred of dignity I have left after that night.
But the idea of getting out of this house—of moving, of running, of feeling my muscles work and my lungs burn with something other than rage and confusion—is too tempting to resist.
"Fine," I say. "Give me five minutes."
"I'll wait here."
I abandon the kettle and sprint back upstairs, taking them two at a time. My room—my doorless room—is still scattered with half-unpacked boxes from the move I did not consent to, clothes and books and personal items I have been too angry to properly organize. I dig through the nearest box until I find a sports bra and black leggings that actually fit, then change so fast I almost fall over twice.
No mirror to check myself, which is probably for the best. I do not need to see what a week of captivity and poor sleep has done to my appearance.
I am back downstairs in four minutes, slightly out of breath, and Gabriel looks me over with an expression I cannot quite read.
"Ready?" he asks.
"Ready."
The morning air hits me like a shock to the system the moment we step outside—cold and crisp and carrying the smell of the city waking up. It is barely light out, the sun just starting to paint the sky in shades of pink and orange, and for a moment I just stand there breathing it in, feeling something in my chest loosen for the first time in days.
"Come on," Gabriel says, already stretching. "Try to keep up."
"Try to keep up?" I repeat, offended. "I was trained by the Irish mafia. I can run circles around you."
"Prove it."
We start at a jog, making our way toward Central Park. The streets are mostly empty this early, just a few people walking dogs and delivery trucks making their rounds. Gabriel sets a pace that is challenging but not impossible, and I fall into rhythm beside him, letting my body remember what it feels like to move with purpose instead of pacing the same ten feet of the bedroom over and over.
By the time we hit the park, my muscles are warm and my breathing has evened out into something steady. The park is beautiful this early—quiet except for birds and the occasional other runner, the trees still holding onto their leaves despite the chill in the air.
"So," Gabriel says after we have been running for maybe ten minutes, not even slightly winded. "You thought I was propositioning you."
"I said I'm sorry," I lie, because I definitely did not say that.
"No you didn't."
"Well I'm thinking it very loudly."
He laughs, the sound rich and warm. "Your mind went straight to sex. Interesting."
"It did not," I protest, even though we both know I am lying.
"It did. You looked at me, I suggested a remedy for insomnia, and your brain immediately went to?—"
