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Cohen Steele.
I never knew his last name until now. He returns the wallet to his pocket.
“I’m Cohen Steele, I’ve worked here for four years. I’m the Art and Set Director.”
I can’t help but smile at him, warmth eating up my chest. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you around here.”
He steps in again, the door resting against his backside as he shoves his large hands deep into his pockets. “Well, if you want an Uber, you can call one. But… I can and will drive you and make sure you get home safely.”
I give my answer quickly and eagerly. “Okay.”
Bracing against the couch, I push to my feet, discovering my balance is a bit off, my legs unsteady as I collect my bag.
Cohen’s hand comes out of his pocket, and he reaches out, but doesn’t quite touch me. Instead he seems to offer his palm as a safeguard for a moment before his gaze falters. Crisp blue eyes pinned on his own outstretched hand for a moment, he brings it slowly back to his side and instead offers an ushering arm to the hall.
We walk silently—though not uncomfortably—through the dark studio. Something about the set in the evening, with nothing but stray shafts of moonlight glittering off the camera lens. It’s beautiful. I blink at the stage, a singular bed with the covers turned down, band posters covering the bedroom wall.
The scene prepped for tomorrow is a discovery scene, and I’m playing an eighteen-year old discovering masturbation. The set reflects a bedroom at that age, and I turn to find Cohen waiting patiently for me, eyes on his boots.
“You’re excellent at your job, the set is… well, it’s always perfect.”
Slowly he lifts his head, eyes glittering as they dance between mine.
“You know what,” I say, suddenly feeling embarrassed for needing help. “Either I Uber now or tomorrow morning,” I say with a soft smile. “I’d hate to put you out, and I don’t think I should leave my car. I’ll drive. I’ll just… go really slow. Thanks for the offer though, but it’s too big an inconvenience.”
Cohen’s head droops forward as he brings one strong hand from his pocket to his jaw, dragging it down his face. The scratch of his palm along his evening stubble has my stomach tightening, and my face hot. He turns his head, and my breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze.
“I’ll drive you home in your car and I’ll walk home.” He declares without hesitation, every word brimming with sincerity.
“You can’t,” I protest. I don’t know where he lives but even ten blocks in this city can equate to over an hour of walking, accounting for the steep streets. “You can’t walk home, or even back to your car at this hour. I can’t let you do that.”
The idea of being a burden to someone, having someone help me because perhaps Aug has coached them or Aug has told them I’m some wounded-winged bird flies through my mind. Anxiety flourishes through my veins again, achingly familiar, and my hands tremble as nervousness and self-loathing threaten to pull me under. All in a matter of seconds.
Nervously attempting to snatch my phone out, my purse falls to the ground, sending a tube of lipstick and a can of mace to the concrete floor.
Without hesitation, Cohen closes the distance, crouching at my feet as he carefully collects my things, putting them back in my purse. Before he rises, his gaze lifts to mine. With my purse strap laced through his hands, he swallows. A sudden numbness grabs hold of me, and my anxious rumbling settles a bit as I stare down at the man at my feet.
“Please let me take you home?”
I extend a hand down to him, not for my purse but for him, and for a moment I worry he won’t understand. But his piercing eyes flick to my outstretched offering before coming up to my eyes again.
“Will you let me drive you home?” His voice is as unwavering as the rigidity in his spine. From this close, despite the low light, I notice crows feet at the corners of his eyes, and some wear on his forehead. But his hair reflects youth and time spent in the sun. This man has been through shit, I can see it in his face. His sweet and handsome face.
“Yes,” I whisper, suddenly feeling weak under his loaded gaze. The pounding pain in my temples makes its presence known, and I clutch at the side of my head as I reach down for the purse. Instead, he places his hand in mine but uses his own body weight to rise.
I look down at our linked hands and up at him.
“I’m going to hold your hand until we’re in the car, to keep you steady.”
My mouth is dry, but I manage, “Okay.”
Being led out of the studio, through the parking lot and into the passenger seat of my car with Cohen’s big hand wrapping mine is the first time I’ve felt cared for in… years.
He ducks into the cab, reaching for the belt then leaning over me to click it into place.
No one has done that for me since I sat in a booster seat as a kid.
Through the melting moonlight, he dips his head into the cab again, one strong arm slung up over the car. “Plug your ears.”
