The unsaid thing floats in the space between us.
Because this should all be happening with Art. He should be here with me. He should be the one saving me from stalkers, comforting me when I’m scared, and telling me he’s not involved with bad guys by choice.
But he’s not here.
And Lanceis.
He steps closer and takes my hands in his.
I blink down at where he’s touching me. His palms are warm and rough, calloused in ways that make me think about what those hands have done. What they’re capable of. What they’reforcedto do.
“You’re still shaking.”
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
But he doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, his thumbs brushing across my knuckles like he’s trying to steady me through sheer force of will.
“Let me drive you home,” he says. “Okay?”
I swallow hard and nod, not trusting my voice.
He releases my hands and shrugs off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders before I can protest. It’s warm and smells like that same leather and woodsmoke, and my body loosens when it engulfs me, and I hate that, too.
“I don’t need—”
“Shut up and get in.”
He opens the passenger door to my car and holds out his hand.
I take it.
His fingers close around mine, firm and sure, and when he lets go, it’s never been more obvious that he’snotArt.
The silence on the drive back feels like it’s choking me, but I don’t do anything to break it. I just pull his jacket tighter around my shoulders and stare out the window, watching the dark trees blur past.
When we pull up to my building and make it to my door, I fumble with my keys, my fingers still clumsy.
Lance doesn’t offer to help this time. He stands there like a shadow, watching the street behind us.
“You can go,” I say, finally getting the door open. “I’m home safe. Mission accomplished.”
His eyes flick past me into the apartment, and his nostrilsflare. He stares at the stove, where the pot of marinara is still sitting, the pasta cold in the colander beside it.
“You haven’t eaten.”
“I was going to—how did you even—”
“Neither have I.”
The refrigerator hums, and I blink.Is he asking to come in?It’s just shitty, cold food. Art didn’t even want to stay to eat it, why would he want to?
He doesn’t wait for my answer. He just steps inside, moves to the table, and sits down like he belongs there.
“Okay, then.” I follow him, taking off his jacket and wrapping it around the back of a chair, and reheat the pasta in silence, hyperaware of him taking up space in my apartment. He’s too big for this room, like the air forms around him just because he’s existing.
There are a thousand questions on the tip of my tongue. About the email. About Art. About what he meant when he said he can’t leave.
