Page 171

Casper

I’ll be there.

Her text sits in my head all fucking night: I want you here. Apparently four words is all it takes to keep me from sleep. By morning, I’ve read the message enough times that the words are burned into my retinas. Not Can you come by or We need to talk . . . I want you here.

The last time we saw each other ended with her telling me not to come near, not to follow her. Now she wants me in her apartment, in her sanctuary . . . touching her. She’s giving me both.

It fills me with a complicated mixture of relief and restlessness. I understand why she’s doing it. She’s creating a space neither of us can easily walk away from. We can’t hide from each other, and it gives us enough time to say what we need to. For me, that means I’ll need to answer for every terrible thing I’ve done . . . and wait for her to decide whether she still wants me after hearing me out. And Christ, I don’t deserve how badly I want that chance.

I exhale, loading my gear into the back of my car like I’m heading to a convention. Portable table, workstation, power supply, clip cords, ink, barriers, gloves, paper towels, trash bags, all of it. The whole goddamn circus. I even brought the basket of snacks I keep especially for her, refilled with more gummy bears and applesauce pouches that she pretends are ridiculous kid snacks, even though she always reaches for them first.

I bring all of my gear to the doorstep before I press the button next to her name. She buzzes me in and I put down the doorstop so I can get everything in. It’s a bitch to carry up the stairs, but worth it. When she opens the door, I nearly forget how to breathe.

Leggings and an oversized shirt, hair loose, face bare. Duchess is on the tip of my tongue but I hold back. We stare at each other for a beat.

“Hey,” she greets softly.

I grip the table in my arms tighter. “Hey.”

She steps aside, holding the door open for me. I lean the folding table up against the wall and untie my shoes. She glances at all the gear still sitting outside her door. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was such a hassle⁠—”

“Anna.” I cut her off before she can apologize for doing the one thing I’ve been dying for since parting ways at that run-down motel. “I’m fine with this.”

She rolls her lips together while I toe off my boots. Our eyes meet and she keeps her gaze locked on mine, her chin lifting when I rise to my full height. I pick up the table and stride past her into the living room where the lighting is best. Anna could ask me to empty the entire Black Rabbit shop into her apartment and I’d carry it up these stairs with a fucking smile.

For the first few minutes, we move around each other in careful silence while I set up. Portable table in the living room, my workstation beside it. Barrier film, machine, grip, ink caps, bottles, towels, gloves. I don’t have to think while setting up, it’s muscle memory, even in a new space. The corner of my mouth quirks when I hold the basket of snacks in front of her and give it a little jostle. I can see the grin hiding behind her lips, it’s quick, and gone when she reaches for an applesauce like I knew she would.

By the time I get a trash can set up with a clean garbage bag, the room feels like it’s shrunk by half. Not because of the setup and gear; this is a tightness that comes from all the unsaid words that have begun stacking up in the corners and covering every surface. There’s so much. It’s the kind of tension that feels thick in your lungs and coats your teeth like candy that’s too sugary.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asks, sauntering toward the kitchen.

“Water would be great.”

She returns holding two glasses, and sets one aside for me.

“Thanks,” I reply, putting on a new set of gloves. I nod at her. “I’m ready for you.”

One second she’s standing there by the table, looking at me, and the next she’s taking off her shirt. I don’t dare blink even though my jaw is clenching so hard I’m at risk of cracking a tooth.

Anna doesn’t hide from me, doesn’t turn her back, doesn’t cover herself. She undresses like we haven’t just spent nearly two weeks flayed open by the raw hurt between us.

I allow myself to blink only when she lies on the table in a prone position, settling her arms in front of her and turning her head away—trusting me with her body. My tongue presses into my cheek while I stare for a second too long at how fucking beautiful she is.

“Fairly certain you’re committed to making this as painful as possible for me,” I say, rougher than I mean to.

Her mouth twitches slightly and that tiny almost-grin settles low in my gut. The way I miss her smile is unhealthy.

Scooting closer to the table, my fingertips brush the warm curve of her back as I sweep aside the loose strands she missed when pinning up her hair. Without a second guess, I open the claw clip and gather it together into my fist. She shivers. I twist up her locks, securing them in place with the clip again. She audibly inhales, but it’s not quite a gasp.

“Sorry,” I murmur.

She responds too quickly. “It’s fine.”

I stare at her bare skin and hold my breath for half a second. Fuck, I’ve missed this . . . touching her, the way her body reacts to me, and how damn good she smells. Hell, I’ve missed her pretty hazel eyes more than I have words for.

I’m unsure if we’re both breathing harder than usual or if the room is truly this quiet. She breaks the dead air while I wet a paper towel with a mixture of green soap and distilled water.

“I want to apologize.”