Our eyes were locked for several minutes. The tension thickened around us as someone came up to clean the table. I quickly looked away, feeling another wave of guilt, even though I didn’t know the story behind his scars. I didn’t know how he truly felt about them—he looked unbothered. But the ice-cold gaze he gave whenever he saw a cigarette made me wonder if he was more human than most people I had met.
I was the first to look away.
"What would you like to do next?" he asked. His expression was neutral—neither angry nor light.
"It’s better if I return. I’ve already pushed my luck today." I glanced outside at the balcony, where the orange glow of the setting sun bathed the tall buildings of upstate New York. I wiped my hands with a tissue and set it down again.
He nodded, then stood up
