Page 50 of Power Play

“Reference material,” I reminded him.

“Right.”

He moved beside me and pulled several books from the shelf. A guide to literary theory. A collection of Victorian essays. A mythology reference with a broken corner. His arm passed in front of me each time, bringing him close enough that I caught the clean scent of soap and coffee beneath something warmer that had always simply smelled like Ryan.

“This one will help with Klein.” He handed me the theory guide. “It explains the frameworks without making you want to throw yourself into traffic.”

“That is a strong recommendation.”

“This one has a section on gender and material culture.” He added another book to my arms. “Use it if you want to keep building the clothing argument.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

The certainty in his voice made me glance at him.

Ryan leaned one shoulder against the shelf, arms folded across his chest. “You lit up when you started talking about it.”

“I was interested.”

“You forgot to worry.”

“I don’t constantly worry.”

He looked at me.

“I take occasional breaks.”

“Scheduled?”

“Color-coded.”

His mouth curved, and I hugged the books against my chest to hide how much I liked making him smile.

With Bliss and Aura, I had always known how to loosen. They had known me before I became particularly good at polishing every reaction, and they were both willing to drag the messier version of me into the light whenever I tried hiding her.

Ryan did it differently. He didn’t drag anything out of me. He waited, and somehow that was worse.

At the Book Nook, he had asked what I thought until I forgot to wonder whether the answer would make me look stupid. He listened until I started speaking faster, until my hands moved, until my notes stopped looking perfect and started looking useful.

His apartment felt like an extension of that strange freedom. There were no footsteps in a hallway that made me wonder whether my father had heard me laugh too loudly. No mother appearing with a tissue, a cardigan, or a gentler way to explain why something about me needed correcting.

Ryan’s books were stacked wrong. His mugs didn’t match. A faint water stain marked one corner of the ceiling, and nothing inside the room seemed ashamed of being imperfect.

I set the books on the coffee table and slipped my bag from my shoulder.

Ryan noticed. His eyes moved from the bag to my face. “Getting comfortable?”

“I’m protecting my shoulder.”

“Sure.”

“You’re very smug in your natural habitat.”

“You’re barefoot yet?”

“I’ve been here for two minutes.”