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The thought of asking makes my stomach turn over because what am I supposed to say?

“Hello, the man holding me captive. Are you gay? Bisexual? And while we’re on the subject, do you think I’m attractive?”

I would rather fling myself off a roof.

Also, even if he does like men, that doesn’t mean he likes nineteen-year-old virgins who’ve never kissed anyone and have to be reminded to ask before holding their bladder until it hurts.

He probably likes adults.

Real adults.

Confident people who know what they are doing.

People who don’t turn bright red because somebody calls them a good boy.

I pull the blanket higher over myself and stare down at the sketch pad Adrien brought me this morning.

A real one, not the little notepad from yesterday.

A thick spiral-bound book with smooth white paper that feels almost too nice to draw on.

He gave me three pencils too.

Different kinds—an HB for general sketching, a 2B for darker lines, something marked 4H that I’ve never owned before because nobody sells those in drugstore three-packs.

There are colored pencils in a metal tin on the dresser, along with two black fine liners, and a set of markers still sealed because Adrien said he didn’t know whether I used them and figured I could decide.

I’m still confused why he bought the scented kind, but maybe he just picked whatever looked good?

He also bought socks. Six pairs, all folded neatly in the package, each pair a different muted color. No thin spots or factory flaws. I’m wearing the lavender ones now—a soft wool blend that doesn’t itch. I didn’t tell him lavender is my favorite color, or that I’m sensitive to certain fabrics and textures, so it’s really nice.

My pencil moves across the page, shaping the line of a shoulder seam. Or it was supposed to be a shoulder. Now it’s just a mess of graphite, smudged where my hand kept resting too long. My concentration dissolved about three redraws ago, right around the time I started thinking about Adrien’s hands again—the way his thumb had pressed into my jaw while he brushed my teeth, the sure weight of his palm between my shoulder blades.

I erase the line. It leaves a gray ghost behind. I try again, slower this time, but my fingers feel clumsy. The line comes out crooked, stubbornly wrong, and I sigh.

The lock on the door clicks open, and my body reacts before my mind—spine straightening, eyes snapping up, stomach giving a traitorous little jump. Adrien steps inside carrying a stack of towels, clean and folded into thick rectangles. Today, he’s in black jeans and a dark green Henley, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Well.

Elbow.

His left arm ends above the elbow, the rolled sleeve exposing the sleek matte-black socket of his prosthetic. As always, he wears a glove over that hand, and I haven’t asked why yet because it feels awkward to.

He looks really good, unlike the mess I surely am.

His gaze drops to the sketchbook in my lap. “How’s it going?”

“Bad,” I answer shortly.

“Why?”

“I can’t get this shoulder right.”

Adrien leans closer, and I angle the page away on instinct. He stops, doesn’t try to look again, and doesn’t even appear offended.

That tiny act gives me an uncomfortable little feeling in my chest.

“Need anything?” he asks.