Worse? It stayed on that dance floor like my traitorous body was ignoring my commands.
I had pulled my blanket tighter around me and stared at the ceiling like it owed me answers.
He said he wanted honesty. Said he wanted me.
But I’ve heard things like that before, from men who didn’t understand what it meant to want a woman who’d already been burned alive by the system. They liked theideaof women like me. Until the reality came with fire and fallout.
So, I waited for the fallout. Expected it.
But it didn’t come.
Instead, over the following weeks, I started seeing him everywhere.
At the coffee shop down the block, when the wind still bit sharp enough to make your eyes water, he was behind me in line. Twice. And both times, he ordered the same thing, black coffee, splash of cream, nothing fancy, and pretended not to notice when I muttered under my breath about clichés. The second time, he slid a blueberry muffin onto my tray without asking, muttering something about “keeping fire sprites from passing out in courtrooms.” I ate it. Every bite. Hated him for knowing I would.
At the courthouse steps, where the frost had been replaced by rain, he caught my eye from across the marble stairs. Didn’t call out. Didn’t wave. Just tipped that ridiculous cowboy hat like the whole thing was some kind of private joke between us. And damn my traitor heart, I almost smiled.
Once at the shelter, when the air was slow to warm and didn't get the memo that we were in spring. It was still sharp with winter, and I found him lugging in boxes of canned food and blankets. He didn’t stay for recognition. Didn’t ask for thanks. Just gave Remi a nod, gave me a look I pretended I didn’t feel in my stomach, and left like it was just another errand on his way home.
And then at the station, twice, catching me at the end of a long shift. He never lingered long. Just a simple, “Get some rest, Sinclair,” like it was both an order and a wish.
And every single time?
Remi.
The traitor.
“Oh, weird,” she said that first morning, smirking as he walked up beside her at the coffee counter. “Didn’t know he was stopping by.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
She just smiled into her cup. “You two looked good on that dance floor.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not subtle.”
“Maybe I’m not trying to be.”
It became a rhythm. He’d appear. She’d beam like she’d personally orchestrated the universe. And I’d scowl hard enough to bruise.
And damn him, he never pushed. Never cornered. Just left space. Little gestures, quiet hellos, half-smiles that lingered too long. The kind of presence that doesn’t storm through a door, but leaves it cracked open just in case.
Like with every stupid action, he was sayingI am here and I’m not going anywhere.
And dammit, it worked.
By the time the first real warmth of spring pushed through, when the trees along Main Street were starting to bud and the air smelled faintly of damp earth, I realized I was looking for him in crowds. Expecting him in places he had no business being.
Which is why, when my phone buzzed one night with a text that read:
Harlan
Dinner. Give me one hour. I’ll come to you. No pressure.
…I stared at it for a solid ten minutes before responding.
Deleted what I typed. Rewrote it. Deleted it again.
Glared at Remi across the room. And without even knowing what it was for, she shot me one of her awkward winks and grinned like a lunatic.
