Chapter Eight Loneliness Makes Bad Decisions-1
716 Words
Mara
The ride was quiet.
Not awkward. Not heavy with forced conversation. Just quiet in the way that made my thoughts louder than the engine beneath us.
Cole didn’t touch me more than necessary. His hand stayed steady at my waist, firm enough to keep me balanced, distant enough to remind me I could pull away if I wanted to. That alone did something dangerous to my chest.
Men usually rushed.
They filled silence with promises or jokes or explanations meant to soften what they wanted. Cole let the silence exist, like he trusted it not to betray him.
I wasn’t sure I trusted myself that much.
The city blurred past us, lights streaking and fading, until the streets thinned and the air changed. Fewer signs. Less noise. More space than I was used to breathing in.
He pulled into a lot beside our building that looked more like an apartment than a home. Clean. Quiet. Nothing flashy.
“This is yours,” He said, climbing off the bike.
“For now,” I replied.
That answer told him more than i probably intended.
Inside, the place was arranged in a homely manner but intentional. Dark wood. Concrete floors. A couch that looked lived on but not abused. My pictures. And lily’s personal clutter. A life designed to be portable.
I hugged my arms around myself without realizing it.
“You cold,” he asked.
“No,” I said quickly. “Just… thinking.”
He nodded like he understood that too well.
“I can make coffee,” he offered. “Or i can leave. No offense either way.”
There it was again.
The exit.
I dropped my purse onto the counter. “Coffee’s fine.”
He moved easily through the space, familiar without being careless. I watched him from the doorway, the way his shoulders shifted when he reached for mugs, the way he leaned his weight like he was always ready to react.
Dangerous men didn’t usually move like that when they thought no one was watching.
“You do this a lot,” I said.
“What.”
“Give people an out.”
He glanced at me. “I don’t like taking things that aren’t offered.”
The words settled low in my stomach.
I perched on the edge of the counter, legs dangling, trying not to think about how exposed that made me feel. Or how safe.
“That bar,” I said, “it’s not my world.”
“I know.”
“I’m not looking for… whatever people think happens there.”
“I know.”
I frowned. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I’m listening,” he said, handing me a mug. “And because you’re saying more with what you don’t.”
I wrapped my hands around the warmth, grounding myself.
“I don’t want complications,” I said again, softer this time.
“Then you shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.”
“Say the word,” he continued, voice low, steady, “and I’ll go home. No questions. No sulking.”
I met his eyes.
The truth sat heavy on my tongue.
“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t reach. Didn’t step closer.
But something in his expression sharpened, like he’d accepted a responsibility he hadn’t asked for.
“Loneliness makes people do things they regret,” he said.
“I’ve already regretted worse,” I replied.
That was when he crossed the space between us.
Not fast. Not slow. Just deliberate.
He stopped close enough that I could feel his heat, smell leather and clean soap and something darker underneath. His hands stayed at his sides.
“If this happens,” he said quietly, “it won’t be a favor. And it won’t be a promise.”
“I don’t want either,” I whispered.
“And it won’t fix anything.”
“I’m not asking it to.”
He studied my face like he was memorizing it. Like he wanted to be certain I wouldn’t disappear on him in the morning and haunt him later.
“I won’t touch you unless you ask,” he said.
My breath hitched.
“I’m asking,” I said.
That was the moment the air changed.
- Writer
