He sat down. Placed the manuscript beside his keyboard. Looked at the first paragraph.
He read it.
Then he read it again.
Then a third time, the words sliding past his attention like water, because beneath the desk, hidden in his lap, his fingers were still tracing the spot where Landen's finger had touched him.
He'd told his hand to stop, clearly and firmly, and his hand had simply ignored him. His finger moved in small, absent circles over the same patch of skin, searching for something that wasn't there anymore.
It was nothing.
He'd said it to himself in the lift. He'd say it again now. He'd keep saying it until it stuck, until his body believed it, until the heat faded and he could look at a paragraph and see words instead of the shape of Landen's face in dim light.
It was nothing.
His finger kept moving.
He was just being polite. The look meant nothing; you probably imagined it, you always imagine it, you build castles out of nothing and then wonder why you're left standing in rubble.
He knew this about himself. Had known it for years, had the scars to prove it. Somewhere deep inside him there was a hunger so vast it would drink up any scrap of warmth and call it a feast. Any accidental touch. Any moment of attention held a beat too long. He took those scraps and built whole worlds around them, every time,always, and then stood in the wreckage afterward and told himself he should have known better.
He knew better.
He read the paragraph a fourth time.
Under the desk, hidden in the loose fabric of his sleeve, his fingers found each other anyway.
Chapter 4
Adriel
The restaurant was the color of bone. Bone and bleached linen and the hollow white of a winter sky, and Adriel thought,I am the only living thing in this room.
He was early. He was always early, as if being seated first could buy him a moment to brace. His phone was in his hands but he wasn't seeing it. His shoulders were already climbing toward his ears, his jacket a cave he was retreating into before the hunt had even begun.
When his mother arrived, the air rearranged itself around her. Her perfume came first, something sharp and floral. She bent, pressed her cheek to his, and pulled away before the warmth could transfer.
"The traffic on the bridge was a nightmare," she said, already signaling the waiter. "Absolutely typical for a Thursday."
Adriel nodded.
She glanced at him. "You look pale. Are you okay?"
Here we go.
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded again.
She was already reading the menu.
They ordered. The waiter approached with the bread basket, warm and soft and wrapped in white linen, and his mother smiled her thin, dismissive smile. "No, thank you. We won't be needing that."
The basket departed.
Adriel watched it go. He wanted, suddenly and desperately, to tear into a warm roll. To feel something give way beneath his fingers. To taste salt and yeast and the simple, stupid comfort of bread. But to say so would be to invite commentary, on carbs, on discipline, on the fit of his trousers, and so he said nothing.
The loss settled in his chest, small and hollow.
His mother sipped her wine and leaned in, her voice dropping to something intimate and confiding. Adriel recognized the posture:we are allies, you and I.
