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I don’t know how to answer. My filter appears fully off, because I’m not immediately backtracking, apologizing, or softening my meaning.
“I don’t intend to be toxic,” he says, “I’m only trying to?—”
“Protect me and do your job. You’ve mentioned that multiple times already. But have you considered the idea that I want to choose when to be protected? And that the lack of choice, taking it from me, might be what is considered toxic?”
He winces. “My sister—she always said being toxic is the worst thing a man could be.”
Oh.I blink. “I’ve never thought of you as having a family.”
“Because I was summoned to this world with a pentagram?”
“No, it’s like when you don’t think of certain celebrities as having family. Like Cher.”
“I’m not the famous one, Ms. Chahal.”
Right. I am. And I don’t want to be reminded of that right now. The thought upsets my stomach, which is why I press a hand to it.
Looking down at my belly, his eyes widen a fraction. “I can't believe—what's wrong with—” He blinks a few times. “I should be punished for not asking. Do you need to be looked at? Should I take you to the doctor?”
“That’s a massive overreaction. My internet sleuthing points to a micro-tear. Those heal on their own.”
Ignoring the horrified look on his face, I say, “Rest assured, nothing hurts. Not even a little.”
Huan closes his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Failing to stay calm.”
“My sympathies for your reaction to my experience.” I cross my arms, again vaguely wondering if I should censor my tone. Somehow it feels like an enormous task right now when usually pretending to be polite is aggravating to do, but relatively easy to accomplish.
“Are you really fine?” he asks again, gentler this time.
“Will the truth set you free?”
Huan tips his head back to look at the ceiling, his knee bumping into mine. “I’m sure there’s a correct way to answer this without being toxically masculine again.”
He rubs the side of his face, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized by how hard he’s trying to do the right thing. Like what I think about him carries real weight.
“I’ll brace myself in case you get problematic,” I offer.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Only because seeing you struggle for once is so—so human,” I say. “You should do it more often. Seriously, I would love to know when you suck at things. I never see you suck at things.”
He finally ekes out a smile. I notice it makes my spirit lift. I find myself telling him so. “Look. Huan, you being here now, afterwards,” I admit, “hasn’t been terrible. On this one occasion, us randomly in this shower talking about what happened is kind of funny.” I also remind him, “But you won’t always be here the next time I have a sex failure.”
“If I’m asked to witness you with another man, I'd rather you take my eyes, Ms. Chahal.”
Dramatic, much?
“I imagine you would give pointers from the corner.”
“At least you wouldn’t bleed.”
Fair, but also we are back to this again.
The reminder of my disastrous toilet-sex adventure, how Huan remains personally upset over it, and the fact I’m talking sex at all with my bodyguard—whose presence, I hate to admit, makes me feel things Judd didn’t get close to. Heart hammering, body flushing, brain overloading. The last one jabs at me the most. My brain never stops being logical and rational and this… with him… I’m talking and snapping back without thought. Without holding myself back. Being reckless in an overcharged way that has nothing to do with collecting life experience. No, it’s like I forget about watching and pretending with Huan. Like I’mcasting my unique, hidden personality of thunderclouds at him with no care about where anything strikes.
