Getting a plushie of Kyran is, repeat it with me, Morana!Gross.
You know him.
Youknowhim.
In real life.
You’ve braided his hair and lain down in his bed and felt his hand against your cheek and…
My doorbell rings, dragging me out of the stupor.
Brow furrowed, I try to remember if I’ve ordered anything recently as I pull myself from my table to the foyer. Bracing for a chilled February breeze to hit me on this otherwise warmish—for early February in West Virginia—night, I open the door and look down for a package.
I find feet instead.
Shoes.
Kyran.
I slam the door shut on him, look at theFrostPlays life-size plushiecard still clasped in my hand, and scream. What’shedoing here? “What are you doing here?” I shriek, searching the small, vacant foyer for a place to hide the card.
Nonchalant, Kyran knocks.
Frantic, I shove the hand with my contraband behind my back and crack the door open toglare.
Once our eyes meet, Kyran says, “I’m a workaholic. I think about my job a lot. It took me a while to adjust after my parents died, but once I did, once I reframed my mindset, I realized that I really love what I do. The community I’ve built. The friends who stayed there with me, even when I stopped posting videos for a year. I have the insomnia thing. It keeps me up at weird hours and makes my sleep schedule a mess. I take long naps in the middle of the day to cope. And often the sleepiness makes me irritable. I will do a lot of things for a bit. If I think it’s funny, I’ll very easily get carried away. I’m kinda lowkey obsessive. My emotions hit hard and heavy and fast. It’s a problem, and I think I weather them by conserving my energy in other ways.” He presents his icy facade. “Like the never smiling thing. I’m a tease. You know that firsthand. I’m inappropriate; again, firsthand experience. I’m genuinely not a fan of boundaries. Whenever I see a line, I get this compulsion to cross it. Also—” He drags his attention off me, takes in my foyer, my arm behind my back, whatever he can see beyond the cracked sliver of my open door. “—I’m kind of a stalker…or maybe just nosy. I don’t know where the line is. But if I did, let’s be so real, I’d probably cross it.” He turns, hands tucked in his pant pockets. “Night, mistress. See you tomorrow.”
I stare outside my front door as he…walksaway. He just shows up, after dark, drops…whateverall that was…and thenwalks away?
Trailing down the driveway to his ice-blue car, he opens the driver’s-side door.
What.
The.
A crass word exits my mouth as Imarchafter him.
He stops his littleretreat. Door open, one long leg stretched to step in, he looks at me.
I repeat, “What the—” I cuss.
He frees a small gasp and covers his lips with his fingers. “Potty mouth.”
“What are youdoing?” I blurt, throwing my hands up. “Why are youhere?”
“I got your address from Crisis. She keeps all the records of who lives where in Sunset. And I—” He points at his vehicle. “—am going home now.”
My shoulders drop. He cannot be serious. I flail my hand at my front door. “What wasall that?”
His head tilts. “An abridged list of my more unsavory traits.”
“Forwhy?”
“Trust is built with knowledge, honesty, consistency, vulnerability, reliability, and open communication. I’m good with honesty. I can be vulnerable, but given the nature of my past, it’s a little difficult for the other person to stomach the reasons behind my vulnerabilities. I’m fairly consistent in my inconsistency. I have to work on being more reliable. We’re getting to know each other better every day.” He pulls his leg back from the inside of his car and shuts the door, so there’s nothing standing between us. “Telling you about the worst parts of me combines knowledge, communication, honesty, and vulnerability. Logic therefore dictates that you’ll be trusting me in no time.”
He. Is. A.Lunatic.
He lifts a finger, pointing at my hand. “What are you holding?”
