“Yes,” I said. “You do.”
I held the question in my mouth longer than was comfortable. I turned it over, tested the edges. Checked for sharpness. I ran it through possible outcomes until my brain started to fuzz at the corners. Asking questions had consequences. So did not asking them. Usually, I chose silence, then blamed myself for the fallout.
I didn’t want to do that here.
Arthur waited without pushing. He did that a lot. Created space and trusted me to step into it. It was infuriatingly respectful.
“Okay,” I said finally, because the word was a small cliff I could jump from. “I have a personal question.”
“Yes,” he said, calm and attentive, like he had not already upended my internal filing system for the night.
I swallowed. “Why did you kiss me earlier?”
Arthur didn’t answer right away. He leaned back slightly, gaze dropping to his hands, fingers loosely laced together. Thinking. Actually thinking. That mattered to me more than whatever words were coming.
“I misjudged the moment,” he said slowly. “But I didn’t misjudge the impulse.”
That landed somewhere between my ribs and my stomach and stayed there.
He lifted his gaze back to mine. “You were kind to me. You were focused. You weren’t afraid. And that… That steadied me. I haven’t felt that way in some time.”
That made sense. It tracked. It fit the evidence.
“I didn’t intend to confuse you, or cross your boundaries,” he continued. “And I regret that I may have done so.”
“You didn’t,” I said automatically. “I mean, you did. But not in a malicious way.”
The corner of his mouth curved into an apologetic smile.
“I’m not always good at separating what I want from what I believe is prudent,” he said. “Kissing you was… what I wanted to do. But it wasn’t something I’d planned to act on.”
There it was.
Noncommittal. Careful. True, probably. Also maddeningly open to interpretation.
I sat with it, and let my brain run itsdiagnostics.
He’d wanted to kiss me, but he wasn’t promising anything beyond that moment. I could work with that. I could live with that. At least, I thought I could.
“Okay,” I said, because okay was my emotional duct tape. “Thank you for answering.”
He inclined his head slightly. “I think we should get some sleep.”
The words were reasonable. The timing was… unfortunate.
“Yes,” I said. “Sleep. Good plan.”
He shifted, planting his hands on the bed as if preparing to stand. “I’ll take the couch tonight.”
My chest did something unpleasant and tight.
“You don’t have to,” I said, then immediately wondered why I had said that.
He paused, glancing back at me. “I don't wish to impose.”
“You’re not imposing,” I said. “It’s a bed. You’re injured. I promise I will not interpret shared horizontal space as a legally binding romantic contract.”
That earned me a quiet huff of amusement.
