Page 11 of Yearning Difficulties

‘I do?’

‘Yeah.’ I leaned across the table and dabbed at it with a napkin. ‘It looks sore.’

He almost moved his hand to cover mine as I pressed the serviette against the narrow scrape but then seemed to realize that would be weird. He snatched it back and I tried not to be hurt by his obvious distaste. ‘We got to try on some of our chainmail and helmets. I think I nicked my skin. It doesn’t hurt. I don’t even feel it.’

‘You wounded yourself.’

‘Not a wound, barely a scratch.’

I smirked. ‘Sure you didn’t get it in a duel?’

‘Positive.’

‘I’ve seen you duel – it can get bloody and ugly.’

‘If you’ve seen me duel, you know that I cut with words – not fake swords bought for pageants. And anyway, this is a scratch, like I said. Not even a cut. A scratch.’

‘It needs a plaster.’

‘It doesn’t need anything. Now what were you going to ask me?’

I gave him a disapproving look, but went on. ‘I have something I need to confess.’

He laughed at that, which made me scowl. ‘You’re always so formal, Red. Is it for my benefit, because it’s common with autistics?’

I flushed. ‘No. I just like to speak—’

‘Correctly. Yes. I know. Language is a weapon. You wield it very well.’

‘Are you going to let me get this out? While you bleed all over the place.’

‘Not bleeding. I feel great, actually. So tell me.’

I winced, suddenly nervous. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to clean that properly?’

‘It’s a stupid little scratch, Red. Say what you were going to say.’

‘There’s . . .’ I sat back against my side of the booth. ‘I’m a bit embarrassed.’

‘Don’t be. I’ll hold back my snark for the next five minutes, I swear.’

I smiled at that. ‘Well, okay. There’s . . . there’s something I’ve wanted really badly for the past year or so.’

He arched an eyebrow at that.

‘Tell me more,’ he said softly.

‘It’s something I’ve not been able to stop thinking about. I’ve not mentioned it to anyone at school, and I couldn’t ever talk about it with Dave because he would . . . well . . . he just obviously wouldn’t get it.’

Killian almost dropped the napkin that was pressed against his scratch. ‘He wouldn’t have liked it?’

‘No. But anyway, who cares what he would think.’

‘Yeah,’ he said blithely, something warm entering his dark eyes. ‘Who cares about him. Go on.’

I bit my lip and suddenly felt a wave of fragility. ‘I want this really badly. And I know lots of people don’t think I deserve it, but I can’t stop thinking about it.’

‘You deserve the things you want,’ he said, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he almost sounded earnest. ‘Just tell me, Zella. It’s fine.’