I reach for them before I can stop myself.
She pulls back. “I can carry my own groceries.”
“I know you can.”
“Then why are your hands on them?”
“Because one of the bags is about to give up on life.”
“Let it join the club.”
“Skylar.”
She huffs before thrusting one of the bags hard at my chest. Hard enough to make her point absolutely clear and leave a mark if I’m not careful.
“Fine. Since you are clearly desperate to be useful after your little pavement performance.”
I take the bag because she’s shaking. Only a little, barely enough for anyone else to notice, but I notice.
She turns toward the building and I fall into step beside her.
For three seconds, neither of us says a word.
It’s almost peaceful.
Which, with us, means disaster is warming up in the corner.
She shoves the key into the front door, yanks it open, and steps inside.
The lobby smells of old carpet, cleaning spray, and someone’s dinner from two floors up. The light above us flickers as if even the building is tired of our shit. The second the door shuts behind us, Skylar rounds on me.
“Why the fuck do you have to do that?”
I blink at her. “Do what?”
Her mouth drops open for half a second before she laughs, but there is no humor in it. Not even close. “That right there. The innocent face. The what-did-I-do routine. You just slammed a man into a brick wall, Zane.”
“He had his hand on you.”
“And you went straight for his throat.”
“He had his hand on you.”
“You keep saying that like it explains everything.”
“It explains enough.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She starts toward the stairs and I follow because, apparently, I have chosen argument as my cardio for the evening and am committed to seeing it through. “It explains why you were angry. It doesn’t explain why you went feral in the middle of the street.”
“Feral?”
“Yes, feral. Do you need me to use smaller words?”
I grit my teeth. “Who the fuck was he?”
She keeps walking. “That’s not the point.”
“It’s absolutely the point.”
