“I know you did.” He doesn’t move his hand. “But I wanted to help anyway.”
I turn to face him, and he’s closer than I realized. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he’s looking at me like he’s barely holding himself back from something.
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Anytime.”
I push the strap of my purse onto my shoulder with hands that aren’t quite steady. “I think I’m done for the night,” I manage.
“Yeah.” He’s still watching me with that intense expression. “I’ll walk you back.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to.”
The night air hits me as we step outside, cold and sharp. January in Detroit isn’t any friendlier than January in New York—the wind cuts through my jacket, and I shiver before I can stop myself.
Without a word, Zayden shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders.
“I’m fine,” I protest, even as I pull it tighter. It smells like him—that body wash, plus something warm and distinctlyZayden.
“You were shivering.”
“It’s cold.”
“Hence the jacket.”
I don’t argue. Partly because I’m tired, partly because wearing his jacket feels good in a way I refuse to examine.
We walk in silence, footsteps echoing on the empty sidewalk. The hotel isn’t far—maybe ten minutes—but the distance feels both endless and not nearly long enough.
“That guy was an asshole,” Zayden says.
“Yeah.”
“Does that happen a lot? Guys not taking no for an answer?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. It’s an occupational hazard of existing while female.”
His jaw tightens. “That’s not okay.”
“No. But it’s reality.”
We walk another half block in silence. I’m hyperaware of everything—the brush of his sleeve against mine, the fog of our breath in the cold air, and the electricity humming between us.
“Tori.”
There’s something about the way he says my name. The slight softening of the ‘T’, the way it sounds almost like “Toh-ree” when he’s not paying attention. Quebec bleeding through the edges of his accent.
I look up. He’s stopped walking, and we’re almost at the hotel—the entrance maybe fifty feet away, light spilling from the lobby onto the sidewalk.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with an expression I can’t quite read—intense and searching, like he’s working something out.
“What?” I ask, suddenly nervous.
“Nothing. I just...” He takes a breath. “I should get you back.”
