Page 14 of Halo

“But?”

“But what?”

“There's a but in there somewhere.”

I stifle my laugh, tapping my hands rhythmically against the bar. “You don't have to do all of this. I know Skye told you to entertain me, but I really am fine.”

“Okay.” She nonchalantly grabs another piece of candy and pops it in her mouth. The movement is strangely hypnotic and beautiful. A freckle just below her lip teases me. It’s just a simple, lone freckle, but it might as well be the most fascinating treasure, and now all I can think about is how it would taste in a kiss.

Fuck. Just be normal, Nick. I have no business fantasizing about her, not when I know sleeping with her wouldn't fix what's broken in me. More importantly, she deserves so much better than a mess of a man who self-medicates with sex.

At least, I used to. Now, I'm a man seeking solace at a dive bar alone.

I guess I'm more like Hal than I realize.

She shuffles the deck a few times before dealing out seven cards to each of us. She sets the rest of them face down in the middle, then picks up her stack of cards. “You can go first.”

I stare at her for a beat. “What are you doing?”

“We are playing Go Fish.”

I sigh, then take the seven playing cards she dealt to me. I reluctantly put them in order, keeping one eye on her. “Fives.”

She scoffs playfully. “That’s rude. You’re supposed to ask.”

“Pardon me,” I mumble. “I haven’t exactly played this game in the last thirty years.”

She hums. “Pity. It’s what all the cool kids are playing these days.”

I chuckle. “I was more of an Uno kid.”

“You would be.”

“Ah, let me guess: you were the player everyone ganged up on.”

She works her jaw a moment. “Listen. There should be a limit to how many times a player gets a Draw Four.”

I laugh. “So you’re a sore loser.”

“I’m not sore.”

“But … you are a loser?”

“Stop.” She laughs, nudging my arm.

“You started it.”

She rolls her lips as a blush blooms across her cheeks. Lifting her cards higher, she pretends to study them with intense concentration.

Then she peeks over the top.

When our eyes meet, she immediately looks away.

I don't. And for some pathetic reasons, I wish she would look back.

My eyes wander lower, following the graceful line of her neck until … Just above the collar of her t-shirt, there is a small, faint scar under her clavicle. “What happened with—?” I pat my upper chest before gesturing to hers.

She looks down. “Oh, that? That’s my mediport.” She pulls down her collar, exposing the tiny lump under her skin. “I went through chemo several years back.”