At my place, he parks beside the curb and kills the engine. Neither of us moves.
The quiet fills the truck.
“Come up,” I say.
His eyes close once.
When he opens them, the captain is gone from his face. Not all the way. Ryan does not shed control like a jacket. But something under it has stepped closer.
“If I come up, I am staying until you tell me to leave.”
“Good.”
“Peyton.”
“I know what I said.”
He looks at my mouth. “Say it again.”
My pulse jumps hard enough to make me angry.
“Come upstairs, Ryan.”
He gets out of the truck.
The elevator ride is worse than the truck. Smaller. Mirrored. His shoulder behind mine, his hand not touching me now, the heat of him near enough to make every inch of distance feel chosen. I watch the floor numbers change and try not to watch his reflection watch me.
“You are staring,” I say.
“Yes.”
“No denial?”
“You said you wanted honesty.”
The doors open before I can answer.
Inside the Airbnb, the lamp is still on beside the couch, the laptop open on the table, the draft article waiting like a witness. I turn the screen down before I can think too hard about symbolism and journalism ethics and the fact that Ryan’s name is saved in the file title.
Ryan notices.
Of course he notices.
“No interview tonight,” he says.
“No interview.”
“No writing this.”
“No.”
His gaze holds mine. “No using it against yourself tomorrow.”
Too close.
I swallow. “That was not one of the rules.”
“It is now.”
