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"You looked peaceful," she replies with a shrug.

I lean against the bar top next to her, crossing my arms. "Are we going to talk about what happened?"

"Nothing happened."

"Liar."

She finally looks at me, and her dark eyes are sharp. "I have work to do."

She rises from her seat. I should walk away and return to work. I'm supposed to be taking my clothes off. Another kind of man would allow her space to deal with whatever she's feeling right now within her own time, but I'm not that guy.

"How many times do I need to call you a liar before you stop and talk to me?" I ponder.

"You're annoying," she hisses.

"You like that I'm annoying."

"I tolerate it."

"You screamed my name." I take a step toward her.

Yue's face is inches from mine while her feet stand on the metal of the stool. Her face flushes. "Go away, Ekon."

"Make me."

She glares at me, and for a second, her hand rises while her lips from a silent word. But then, she takes a deep breath and turns back to the door.

"Fine," she says. "Do what you want, but don't talk to me."

Her job for the night is mostly over. She doesn't have anything else to do unless someone fucks with the ceiling or something. She walks around the club, scaling the perimeter. My eyes scan her the entire time. Her steps grow heavier the longer I look at her. It takes about twenty minutes before she snaps.

"What are you doing?" she hisses, stomping toward me.

"Standing."

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

"You're being creepy."

"I'm being attentive."

She crosses her arms. "Ekon, I swear—"

"What? You'll curse me? Go ahead. I'm already cursed."

"What do you want from me?" she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I'm not asking you to define this," I say, grabbing her hand. I help her off the stool, holding her hands in mine. "I'm not asking you for a label, or a commitment, or some declaration." She looks away, and I place my hand on her jaw, forcing her to gaze at me. "I don't need you to say I'm yours. I don't need you to say you're mine."

Her lips part.

"I just need you to stop lying about wanting me."

The club roars around us, bass thumping.

"Why does it matter if I want you or not?" she asks finally with a long exhale. "Wanting you," she starts and then slaps my hand away. "Wanting this," she says, moving her hand between us, "is a fucking problem." Her words are barely audible over the music. "Wanting you is making everything worse. I can't think straight, and my magic is falling apart. I'm losing my fucking mind."