I pull myself together and step out.
Andrew hears me and looks up quickly.
“I wanted to pay the bills, but I don’t know your PIN,” he says.
I join him and glance at the screen. He’s already pulled up the right program. I lean in a little, reaching over to type.
I don’t expect it—his scent hits me hard. Raw. Like the promise of rain after an endless drought. My fingers tense against the keyboard. I clench my jaw and shut my eyes. My self-control is hanging by a thread, fraying fast. It wouldn’t take much.
Then suddenly, his small hand lands on my forearm.
A jolt of energy rushes through my muscles, the same way my tattoo machine does when it hums to life. He has the same power—he can numb any pain I carry. My breath catches. My knees threaten to give out. How much longer can I stand being near him?
“You okay?” he asks softly.
I pull myself together and pry his hand off me.
“Don’t touch me, Andrew,” I growl, punching in my code before practically bolting from the studio.
Outside, I stop dead. My heart is hammering. My skin itches. I want to dive into acid, anything to replace the chaos inside with a pain I can control.
I lean against a streetlamp, my body only calming once the cold starts sinking into my bones. My mind clears—but not enough. Andrew is still there, still clinging to me like a second skin. I can still feel him. I remember the way his body felt against mine. I know exactly how his face lights up when he lets go. The images cut through me, whispering temptations I can’t afford. The kind of temptations that nearly got him killed.
I shake my head hard.
When the cold becomes unbearable, I head back inside.
Andrew’s behind the desk, arms crossed, watching me.
How long has he been standing there?
“We weren’t just friends, were we?” he says.“We were… together.”
His brows knit for a moment, then his gaze drops to the floor. When he looks up again, his voice is quieter.
“Do you still feel something for me?”
His question hits me like a bullet. I’m freefalling. Is it that obvious to him? Probably. Probably to everyone. I never was good at pretending. I don’t even try to hide how little I care about anything anymore.
He sees too much. Too fast. But I’m not ready to answer—not when he’s not safe. Not when he doesn’t remember. Not when he doesn’t feel the same.
I leave him standing there and return to my workroom.
His question hangs in the air between us—and that’s where it’ll stay. My schedule is full today. There’s no need to talk unless it’s absolutely necessary.
I survived a full day with Andrew—and somehow, I managed to keep my distance. He seemed hurt. Good. Even if it twists my gut to hurt him, it’s for the best.
It was only one day, in a week that already feels endless. I even lasted two more, hiding out in my own damn living room. A miracle. That man’s a hurricane when he sets his mind on something. And yet, he’s been surprisingly calm.
I unlock the front door and find him already there, early as usual. Just like the days before, he’s brought me coffee. And, like always, I thank him politely. But today, he’s not smiling the same way.
Instead of heading to the desk, he stands still in front of me.
“We need to talk,” he murmurs against the lid of his cup.
I raise an eyebrow, waiting for more.
“This can’t go on like this,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
