“This is not flirting, Vincent.”
The use of my first name landed exactly as she intended. She rarely used it. When she did, it sounded like she was testing the shape of a weapon in her mouth. I stepped closer.
“It would be practical.”
“It would be insane.”
“You would have your own room, my love.”
“Oh, how generous. Does the room come with surveillance or is that extra?”
“You could bring Miss Astoria.”
Her expression flickered. There. A small, involuntary crack.
“She would like the windows,” I added.
Céline looked toward the rain-dark glass before catching herself.
Then she laughed once, softly, without humor.
“You are unbelievable.”
“She really would.”
“I’m not moving my cat into your apartment.”
“I said you could.”
“And I said I’m not doing it.”
“You haven’t said that yet.”
She stepped closer, anger restoring her balance. “I am not moving into your apartment. I am not letting you turn my life into some private experiment with better furniture. I am not handing you my mornings, my friends, my cat, my sleep, or whatever else you think you can collect if you make the cage comfortable enough.”
“You think this is about control?” I said.
“I know it is.”
“No. Control would be easier.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Then what is it?”
The question was too direct. I could have lied. I should have. Instead, the truth rose before I could bury it properly. “I dislike not knowing where you are.”
Céline went very still.
“That is not romantic,” she said quietly.
“No.”
“That is not sane.”
“No.”
“And you’re still saying it?”
“Yes.”
