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I swallow as his gaze moves over my fresh boxer-briefs, then back up to my face.
There’s a beat where we don’t speak. Where it feels…strained. Where he looks at me with a grave face, and I feel like I’m stepping into thin air as I get up on the bed beside him. I can smell food in the bag. He put in a food order—before he got here.
“Whatcha got there?”
His gaze touches mine before retreating. “Vegan Greek.”
I can’t see his features well. Over here on the bed, away from the light spilling through the bathroom and bedroom doors, things are darker. We’re both cast in dim light from the window by the bed.
Heat moves through me—just a consequence of being near him. I drag in a deep breath, hoping he won’t notice. I try hard to keep my voice low-key as I ask, “How’d you know?”
He lifts two takeout containers out of the bag and opens one. “How do you think?”
He remembers what I like from when he used to watch my Instagram. But that was years ago now.
“Did I mention vegan?”
He shifts his shoulders, window light emphasizing his features so I can see his mouth twist. “Lucky guess.”
I rub one of my biceps and sit cross-legged. I’m hungry and cold. As if he can read my mind, Luke reaches over my lap, grabs a fistful of blanket, and pulls it across both of us.
“Cold night.”
I can’t find my voice.
He hands over my to-go box. As I set it in my lap, it hits me—I feel scared. I’ll do anything for him. It’s like…I just can’t not. I’ve never been a stupid guy, but I have no sense of self-interest when I’m near him.
When I look up again, he’s stretched out on his back. He’s got his arms folded behind his head and his eyes shut.
“I was seeing someone.” I watch his chest rise…then fall. “Someone I liked.” He shifts a muscled arm over his eyes—the way he does when he can’t stand my eyes on him. “Tonight, I broke it off. So I can be with you for shy of three months. And you know the worst part?”
“No.”
He moves his arm so he can look at me. “I don’t regret it. If I could fix the cameras every day, I’d make you wear that every day to work.”
He means that he’d want me at his mercy every day. Because he wants to make me feel how he feels—and he feels helpless. Like he doesn’t have a choice at all.
He feels just like I do.
His eyes burn. His jaw is hard. Like he resents this.
“You want me to say I’m sorry?” I ask. My pulse picks up as his gaze holds onto mine. “Yeah well, I wish I was. Wish I understood why this shit with you keeps on happening. Especially if you don’t want it.”
And he doesn’t want it. How could he? He just fucking told me I’m wrecking his shit. Doubt rises in me—followed by a prickling irritation that comes from having my pride stomped on. “Maybe I should go.”
He covers his face again, and for the longest time, it’s quiet. Then he moves his arm.
“Go,” he says. “Tomorrow.”
“Why? Because you’re scared?”
“Yeah, that’s right. Because I’m fucking scared, Vance.”
I think of his life and feel a sharp twist of guilt. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“No.” His face is hard. “It’s not your fault. Go back to Chelsea.”
Then he’s up, crossing the room with long strides. The bathroom door shuts hard behind him.
I knock twice, and when I find it locked, I realize there’s got to be something that lets me in; this is a rental unit, after all. I rub my fingers over the door’s frame. I don’t know what it’s called, but one of those pointy…there! I knock something off the door frame, and it lands between my feet.
“Luke?”
When he doesn’t answer, I poke the thing into the small hole on the doorknob, jiggle it and twist until it catches, and push the door open slowly. I find him in the shower with his forehead pressed against the wall, his broad back heaving. I touch his shoulder; it feels goose-bumped, slicked in cold sweat.
“Sorry,” he says. It’s more like a gasp.
I hesitate for just a second before I wrap my arms around him from behind. His muscles tremble. “I’m not strong,” he rasps.
“What do you mean?”
He doesn’t answer, so I come around in front of him. His head is bowed. Moving between him and the shower’s wall, I pull him up against me and wrap my arms around him. He’s so fucking still. I run my fingers into his hair, holding him tight.
“I’m…not strong.”
I have to struggle not to laugh at such a fallacy. “Yes, you are. You’re too strong.”
He shakes his head. A little shiver starts to tremble through him. He just stands there, locked around me, shaking like that, and I feel so fucking helpless I could drive my fist through the wall.
