19. Wick

I retreated to the living room, where I paced for about five minutes, listening to her in the kitchen, running the water and clanging pots around, and not because I was obsessively, compulsively worried she would put the pans away in the wrong cabinet.

I felt exposed now. She had exposed me. But what the hell had I been thinking to admit to her how responsible I felt for her? That sounded creepy even to my ears.

I didn’t want to be creepy. I just… I wanted her to stop questioning my motives and stripping me emotionally bare. I’d worked damn hard these past few years to close myself off and not let any of my thoughts or stupid feelings show. Why did she need to crack me open? And why the hell was I letting her? I didn’t want to be open, anymore. I wanted—

Fuck.

I didn’t even want to admit what I really wanted.

When a knock fell on my apartment door, I stopped flipping out and running my hand through my hair to scowl at it.

This time, I wasn’t even expecting it to be for me. I stro