Silence stretched between us. It felt fragile.Ifelt fragile, waiting for his reply.
“What do you want, Garrett?”
I released a breath. “For starters, to have a conversation with a man and not a ghost.”
He made a sound. “I am a ghost.”
“Because you always hide?”
“Because I show up unpredictably and disappear without a trace.”
“This time, you’re still here,” I whispered.
“I’m trying to decide what kind of game you’re playing.”
“I don’t have time for games. I’m just trying to survive.” Really, if anyone should have been suspicious, it was me.
His frame shifted enough for me to make out an outline. Definitely taller than me.
“Why are you homeless?”
If he was going to ask a million questions, then I was too. “Why won’t you let me see your face?”
A moment of silence stretched into two. The frayed edges of my nerves tickled my insides as I waited.
With a resigned sigh, he pushed out of the corner.
My heart skipped, sending ripples of awareness through the room as he moved not quite into the light but close enough that I could separate man from mere silhouette.
He wasn’t at all what I expected, not that I had many expectations at all. But even if I had, he easily surpassed anything I could have imagined.
He was all black on black on black—black pants, black shirt, and black leather jacket—making me wonder if he wore the shadows or if the shadows wore him. Even his hair was inky, the long strands falling against prominent cheekbones, adding even more secrecy to softly hooded eyes so enigmatic that they were practically locked doors.
The only contrast between him and the night was a light beige complexion, its warm undertone preventing it from being stark.
As hungry as I was to look at the rest of him, I couldn’t convince my eyes to leave his face. Having felt like I’d waited eons to see him, I wasn’t about to look away, so we found ourselves in an unspoken staring contest of sorts, neither blinking or speaking.
“Keep staring like that and I’m going to get ideas.” His smoky voice broke the silence, but his eyes remained locked on mine.
The suggestive words matched with his husky tone had me gulping for air, which sent me tumbling into a hacking cough. Eyes watering, throat screaming, I hunched over myself, burying the lower half of my face into my elbow. That’s how I noticed I was wearing a shirt that wasn’t mine and simultaneously tried to inhale to catch its scent, whichonly made me cough harder.
Even as I wheezed, awareness prickled the back of my neck, watery eyes lifting to find a white mug floating right in front of my face. It wasn’t the mug I found so interesting but the long, widespread fingers grasping the ceramic from the top. His knuckles were scarred, nails short and blunt. More interesting was the thick band hugging his pointer finger, made of what looked like dull silver, the edge ridged like it was his battered knuckles’ wingman.
His grip was confident, maybe a little barbaric, but when he nudged the cup closer, I realized it was handle out, making it easy for me to grasp.
My fingers protested when I wrapped them around the handle, and I glanced at my digits like I expected them to look anything but normal.
But they were just as they always were. Pale and weak compared to his. Their unimpressive normality made me feel like I was somehow gaslighting myself.
It’s just growing pains. Don’t be dramatic.
“Two hands.”
The gruff voice overhead interfered with the intrusive thoughts, and I glanced up. “Huh?”
“Two hands, Pip. I’ve already cleaned you up once.”
Scrunching my nose, I wrapped my other hand around the body of the cup, pulling my arms in so I could take a sip. The water was room temperature and felt nice against my cottony mouth, but once it hit my throat, it turned to shards of glass. Wincing, I swallowed gingerly, the full realization that I was sick finally hitting home.
