“No.” He came closer, too close for a sidewalk, not close enough for what I wanted. “You don’t get to look at me like that, then walk out like I did something to you.”
I glanced toward the bar windows. “Lower your voice.”
His face changed, anger flashing into hurt so fast it almost unbalanced him. “Don’t do that right now.”
“Do what?”
“Use that voice when you won’t say what you mean.”
A taxi pulled up. The driver looked at me through the windshield. I lifted a hand to wave him on. He did, slowly, annoyed.
Jace followed the movement with his eyes, then looked back at me.
“You were leaving.”
“Yes.”
“Because of her?”
I said nothing.
His breath came out in a humorless rush. “She was some random person at a bar. I didn’t even know her name.”
“She had her hand on you.”
“You’re married.”
The words struck clean.
He regretted them the second they came out. I saw it. But he did not take them back, because they were true.
“Yes,” I said.
“And I have a girlfriend.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “So tell me what rule I broke, because I’m having a hard time keeping track of the invisible ones.”
I stepped closer. “You want a rule?”
“I want you to stop acting like you don’t care unless it’s safe to care.”
That did it.
I caught his arm and steered him off the sidewalk into the narrow alley beside the bar. He came with me, not stumbling, not resisting, breath picking up as the sound of the street fell behind us. The alley smelled like rain, brick, and old beer. A security light buzzed above a back door.
I let go of him near the wall.
“Color,” I said.
His answer came instantly. “Green.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Not enough to forget what I want.”
“That isn’t the only measure.”
His chest rose hard. He held my gaze, and for all the alcohol-softened edges, he was there. Angry. Hurt. Wanting. Present.
“Amber if you need to slow down,” I said. “Red if you need me to stop. Say it now so I know you can.”
