The Puck’s Bunny

Ch.4

EROS

She appears stunned, wide-eyed, drenched from the rain, and gazes at me as if I'm a mistake she's yet to determine whether to regret.

What's worse?

That expression feels oddly familiar. It's reminiscent of the instant just before something shatters.

Her eyes scan my face, hesitant and almost in disbelief, as if she's still weighing whether I saved her... or merely destroyed her life.

She moves closer, raising her hand in a gesture of thanks, attempting to maintain professionalism, even though she's trembling like a leaf. However, the stone steps are slick, with water cascading over them. I notice the shift in her weight before she does, the unsteadiness in her ankle, the slip of her foot.

Her balance falters.

Her eyes widen. Then she falls directly towards me. I react instinctively. My hands extend, one arm securing her waist while the other grasps her elbow as she collides with me. Her forehead strikes my chest with unexpected force. She's icy, trembling, drenched, yet somehow still...warm and undeniably real. Her fingers grip the leather of my jacket, either seeking stability or perhaps just in a state of desperation. Her breath quivers against me, a slight hitch I can feel through my jacket, too intimate, too unforeseen.

For a brief moment, she remains there, pressed against me. Held tightly in my embrace...as if she were meant to be there.

Belonging is a risk. And I don't take on risks. I freeze. Completely motionless. Because this is unfamiliar to me. Not anymore. Not ever, if I'm being truthful.

I keep people at a distance, neither physically nor emotionally, for that matter. Not in environments where distance equates to power. Not here, where distance signifies survival. And certainly not like this, Claire Dawson fitting seamlessly against me as if the universe intentionally placed her in my arms.I’m unsure how to handle this sensation, and I dislike that it exists. Emotions complicate matters. They cloud judgment, and people end up getting hurt.

"Be careful," I say, my voice emerging too softly, too harshly, revealing more than it should. That jolts her back to reality. She recoils as if scorched, teetering once more, and I support her just a moment longer. Then I let her go slowly, cautiously, as if she might collapse from sheer mortification.

"I...I'm fine," she stammers, breathless, embarrassed, and definitely not fine.

Her cheeks turn red, and she avoids making eye contact with me. In terms of first impressions, she’s not exactly scoring any points. Her eyes dart around, avoiding me, focusing instead on the ground, her shoes, her bag, even the air seems more inviting than meeting my gaze.

And I should allow her that. I should take a step back, give her some space, and retreat to the comfortable distance I usually maintain.

But I don’t.

I can’t seem to divert my gaze anywhere else.

Rain trickles from her dark hair, cascading down her cheeks like shimmering threads. When she finally meets my gaze, her eyes are sharp hazel, filled with uncertainty and far too expressive for someone caught in a storm.

She’s drenched, tousled, a complete mess by any reasonable measure, yet I can’t help but stare. Her chest rises and falls too quickly. She’s shaken, desperately trying to regain her composure, smoothing the fabric of her skirt as if that could somehow erase what just occurred.

But it won't. Because I sensed it the moment she leaned against me. It felt like one of those trust falls people do, and I have this feeling I went beyond it, even though I would never rely on anyone to catch me. Accidental or not, she placed her entire weight in my hands. And I despise admitting it. A small, treacherous part of me acknowledged the contact as a mistake worth repeating.

The rain continues to pour. It sheets across the driveway in shimmering lines, gathering around my boots as I finally dismount the bike. My legs feel more stable than they should after everything that happened, after having her pressed against me, clinging to me as if she trusted me before she even realized it. I push aside the flicker of warmth that tries to creep up my spine.

She stands at the bottom of the steps, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders tense, attempting to act as if she isn't embarrassed. She resembles someone the storm has consumed and then spat out here.

"Are you okay?" I ask, more harshly than I meant to. I clear my throat. "Did you hurt yourself?"

She glances at me quickly and shakes her head. "No. I'm fine. Really." Her voice is breathless, shaken. She tucks damp hair behind her ear, avoiding my gaze as if it were something perilous.

Good. They are.

My gaze lingers on her just a moment too long. A warning spark ignites low in my chest, the kind that inevitably leads to trouble. I compel myself to look away. She's just an employee. That’s all. It must be all. Before either of us can utter another word, the enormous front door swings open.

"Mr. Asante? Is that you?" Mrs. Parker's voice cuts through the rain, bright and warm enough to pierce the chill. She steps into the light of the entryway, her silver hair pinned loosely, her eyes sparkling with mischief and curiosity.

"Goodness, Claire. You're soaked?"

Claire moves toward the door, and I follow. Mrs. Parker's voice is warm, affectionate, everything I am not, and the difference is immediate. The entire entryway seems to glow brighter with her presence. I observe Claire's expression change. The uncertainty fades. Her eyes soften. She stands a bit taller, clutching her bag as if it anchors her to something secure. Mrs. Parker links her arm through Claire's with unexpected strength.

"Come in, dear. Let’s get you warmed up. Eros, don’t just stand there—close the door before the whole foyer gets soaked!"

Claire looks back at me. The warm light from the foyer spills over the entryway as Claire steps inside, Mrs. Parker almost glued to her side. I follow them in, shutting the door behind me.

Claire gazes at the grand foyer as if she has entered a different realm, her eyes wide and shoulders tense, making an effort not to spill anything on the marble.She appears weary as Mrs. Parker leads her toward the staircase. I finally manage to step back. I must adhere to my rules, keep everything tidy, and maintain distance.

"Goodnight," I say, short and straightforward.

Claire flinches slightly at the sound of my voice, turning abruptly. She grips her leather bag more tightly, offers me a small nod, and then averts her gaze. I begin to make my way to my office. I ought to leave this chaotic night behind.

But then—her bag slips.

It lands on the marble with a soft thud before exploding open like a confetti cannon filled with disorder. A notebook, a crushed granola bar, a charger, and pens scatter everywhere. She drops to her knees with a flustered gasp.

"Oh no, no, no—sorry!" Her hands rush over the floor, attempting to collect everything simultaneously.

Mrs. Parker chuckles. I do not. Because something else skids across the floor, right to the toe of my boot. A square news clipping. A photograph. I don’t pick it up, but I glance at it. Claire...with a man. Dark hair, polished features, and a smile directed at the camera, he has his arm draped around her shoulders. The headline has been ripped away.Her file indicated that she faced no complications.

No issues. Nothing that could disrupt her work here. So why is she hiding a secret that she clearly wishes to keep from everyone? She snatches the clipping quickly—too quickly—and slips it into her notebook without making eye contact with me.

"I apologize for the mess," she whispers, her voice barely audible.

Mrs. Parker waves her hand dismissively. "It happens, dear." She places a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Come along, Claire. Let’s get you settled."

I remain still. I simply observe. As they make their way toward the stairs, the foyer once again feels vast and empty. Silent. Yet the turmoil in my mind is anything but. What exactly is she fleeing from?