Page 17 of Theta

"I'm not."

“You sound mad."

"I'm not mad."

“You've never snapped at me like this before. I just want to know what's going on."

"I told you. I woke up with your hand on my junk. I know it wasn't on purpose, and it's fine. I just need a second."

"But you said it's not like that between us for me."

"I misspoke."

"No, you didn't. Why are you lying and evading?"

"Because this is awkward and I'm confused!" I snap, almost shouting. "And this doesn't seem like the best time to have this conversation, anyway.”

"What conversation? And if not now, when? We literally have nothing else to do."

"I know."

"Because when you say it's not like that between us, you're referencing the fact that my hand was on your junk. And then you say it's not like that between us for me, which implies, more or less directly, that it is like that for you."

I groan, sagging against the wall. "Story, please. Have mercy. Don't make me go there."

"Go where?"

I groan again. "You're relentless."

“About most things, yes, especially when there’s something I don't understand, and I don't understand this whole interaction."

"I was…affected," I say through my clenched molars. "Physically. By your…closeness…to certain portions of my anatomy. All I meant was that I know it wasn't intentional."

"No, it wasn't. I was asleep."

"I know."

"But it seems like there's something else going on."

Her mere proximity—let alone the totally innocent and platonic hand on my sternum—is enough to keep me throbbing like a hammer-smashed thumb and as rigid as a steel beam.

I just can't make myself say the truth. Rejection sucks.

"Talk to me, Killy," she whispers. “We’ve always been honest with each other."

I bark a laugh. "Sure, but we've never really had any big conversations, have we? Not about heavy or important stuff."

"So there is something important going on."

"Shit. No."

"Killy," she says with a laugh. "You're being super freaking weird."

"No I'm not." Her hand starts to slide down my sternum toward my stomach, and I grab her wrist. "Don't."

"Killy…" She does a deft reversal, and suddenly her tiny soft hand is gripping my wrist with shocking power and then she's in front of me—I feel her there, sense her, smell her, hear her. "Just be honest."

Her hand guides mine to her cheek, and I can't help but let out a shaky breath at the warmth and softness of her cheek, her jaw under my hand.