Page 116 of Silent Shadows

As intoxicating as it feels, it’s also deeply inconvenient.

When I asked him to go out for an interview, I told myself the objective was to burn off tension.

Not whatever this is, walking through the dark beside him with my shirt half tucked in wrong, my knees still unsteady, and his hand brushing mine every few steps as if gravity keeps forgetting we’re not supposed to touch.

With my background—and, okay, my own very enthusiastic participation—in the world of sex, I've explored just about everything except a few hard limits. I've never been shy about talking about what I like, what turns me on, or the psychology behind it.

But now I'm rethinking all of it. Because whatever happened between Miles and me wasn't about roleplay or performance. It wasn't pretending to be anything we weren't. It was something much simpler. More instinctive.

I think there's a piece of primal play I've been brushing up against without ever recognizing it.

It was about finally shutting off the part of my brain that's always narrating, analyzing, and wondering whether I'm doing it right or whether the other person is enjoying themselves enough. For the first time in a long time, I wasn't performing or overthinking. Whatever felt good, whatever felt natural, I just… went with it. Without question.

Now that I've experienced it, I don't just want great sex.

I want that feeling again—that complete surrender to the moment, where my body knows what it wants before my brain has a chance to get in the way.

It’s quiet as we walk, both of us processing in our own ways. My mind is spinning, half replaying sex therapist interviews I’ve done over the years and half avoiding thinking too hard about how he smells like home. Like home home, before my mom passed. Like laundry and cedar and warmth. I don’t want those memories resurfaced, and I especially don’t want this man linked to them.

Attraction? Fine.

Lust? Been there.

Some emotionally destabilizing chemistry in the woods? Manageable.

But comfort? And feeling comfortable enough to let my guard down? To be in the moment and just feel it?

Comfort is precarious. Allowing myself to feel that comfort or safety feels like the least safe thing I could do.

Especially when that comfort arrives in the form of a six-foot-something conspiracy theorist with pretty brown eyes and an alarming tendency to say earnest things at full emotional intensity.

As we walk, I sneak a look over at Miles. His hair is still messy from my fingers. Glasses slightly crooked. Neck blotchy—there might even be a small amount of blood from a scratch or two. His mouth is pink and ruined-looking in a way I refuse to unpack right now. He looks over at me, then looks away as if I caught him. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth anyway. Not cocky or smug, like most men I know would look, but almost shy.

Which feels ridiculous considering everything we just did to each other.

As we walk, the night settles around us, cool and quiet, the path silvered by moonlight. Our knuckles brush as if by accident. Except neither of us moves away right away.

The second brush happens a few steps later. Longer this time. His hand warm against mine. I glance over again. He’s staring straight ahead with the concentration of a man attempting advanced mathematics. Jaw tight. Expression carefully neutral. Like touching my hand requires active emotional regulation.

The realization makes something embarrassingly soft unfurl low in my chest.

“So,” He glances over finally, cheeks pinker than before. “I’m trying very hard to act normal, and I’m realizing I no longer remember what normal feels like.”

I laugh harder, a helpless sound that echoes a little through the trees.

“I have no idea what you mean,” I say, feigning innocence with a laugh. His shoulder brushes mine.

Accident or not, I feel it everywhere.

Then, like he’s testing something fragile, his fingers brush mine again. Pause. Then his hand turns slightly. An offering, as if he’s asking. My heart trips over itself. God, this is stupid. This is risky. This is warm.

I let my hand slide into his. His shoulders loosen so subtly I almost miss it. A tiny exhale escapes him. Relief. Like despite everything, he still wasn’t sure.

And for some reason, that gets me. His thumb shifts once against my hand, tentative and absentminded all at once.

“You know,” I say carefully, “for someone who hunts mythical creatures…”

His mouth twitches.