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Because, despite everything—including both our pasts that said we weren’t the relationship types—there was clearly something going on between us.
Physically, yes.
I mean, obviously.
But it was more than that.
I mean, we’d both shared our stories with each other. Our carefully guarded secrets that only those who truly needed to know got to be privy to.
That was a big deal for me, so I knew it was a big deal for him.
On top of that, we both seemed to enjoy each other’s company. And be accepting of the other’s demons.
That was more than just the physical.
So, yeah, we probably did need to talk about it.
Even if talking about it just meant that we would work through our own confusion together and decide that, no, there was nothing going on, and we could just go our separate ways.
I tried to ignore the way my belly sank at the very idea.
“Morgaine, come on,” Crow said. “Look. I don’t pretend to know what’s going on in your head. I get that your feelings about guys in general are… complicated. But I’m not talking about men in general here. I’m talking about me. Figure you must know me well enough at this point to at least be able to tell if you trust me, if I’m someone you think is worth knowing, worth spending some time with.”
“I… yeah. I… I think we’ve had a good time together,” I said. “And I don’t just mean this,” I added, waving down at my body that suddenly felt way too exposed, way too vulnerable.
Funny how it hadn’t a moment before. But when the topic of actual feelings came up, I felt like I needed protection.
Feelings were… a complicated thing for me in general. Mostly because I rarely, you know, felt them. Because I never let anyone get too close. Never close enough to impact my emotions, at least.
There was no denying, though, that Crow had been weaseling his way into my mind almost nonstop since we’d met.
It came out in my art. It came out in my dreams. And it came out just randomly throughout the day when I was doing my usual daily mundane tasks.
I may have been trying my best to chalk it all up to hormones, to lust, to chemical reactions in my brain and body.
The fact of the matter was, though, that I knew better.
Crow had managed the previously unthinkable to me.
He’d made me feel.
He’d made me want to connect.
And after so long on my own, so many years of consciously disconnecting from the world, it was both scary and exhilarating to feel it.
“Yeah, I wasn’t talking about that either. Though, top fucking notch, baby,” he said, shooting me a devilish little smirk. “I think it says something that I can’t fucking focus lately. That no matter where I am, my gaze keeps coming in this direction, wondering what you’re up to. And if you’re having the same problem.”
Did he mean did I constantly find myself looking off in the direction of the clubhouse and wondering if he was there sleeping, eating, or hanging out with other women? Yeah. As much as I hated it, yeah, that was the exact same problem I had.
“I… yeah. I mean… you heard about the earrings,” I reminded him. “And that was before we… hung out,” I said.
“So, if we’re both dealing with the same problem of being curious about each other and wanting to spend some more time together, then what the fuck are we doing? By staying apart, I mean.”
“Protecting ourselves,” I said, taking a deep breath as I reached for the kettle and poured it into two cups.
“You think you need protection from me?” he asked, sounding a little, I don’t know, hurt.
“Not that way,” I clarified, looking over. “I believe you wouldn’t ever hurt me, or any woman, physically.”
“Good. That’s pretty fucking important,” he said, nodding. “What do you mean then? That I’ll fuck with your feelings?”
“I mean… I don’t think you would, you know, intentionally do that. The thing is, you’re maybe the only person I’ve met in years that is even capable of it. And that scares the crap out of me. I’m not like you. I don’t have a bunch of close friends and connections. I’m not… comfortable with that.”
“Did you ever stop to think you’re not comfortable with it because you won’t let yourself be comfortable with it?”
“All the time,” I admitted.
“Then why do it? I get that you have this… one big secret you want to keep. And I get that. I have my own. But you can connect with people without telling them every single thing about you.”
“Not telling them I’m a killer is a pretty significant thing.”
“If you were a thrill killer, maybe,” he said. “But even then, maybe not. What? You think all the serial killers in the world are going around telling their loved ones and random people they meet in line at the post office that they like stringing people up and disemboweling them?”
