44. Chapter 44
The problems is not that I want him.
The problem is that wanting him has become inconvenient.
It settles in me slowly over the course of the next morning, a low hum under my skin that refuses to be ignored.
Okay, so maybe I’m lying to myself that this is a sudden bright realization. That its hit me all at once and didn’t already steamroll me the moment I stepped into Pitch.
I’ve set up base camp in the corner this morning, pretending to sketch when in reality I haven’t put a single meaningful line on the page in ten minutes. Not because of something sane like—I don’t know—mental block. No, it’s the absolute absurdity of having Alex sitting across the room as he works.
He’s stripped the dining table bare and turned it into some kind of temporary workstation; papers spread neatly, a notebook open, and pen moving with steady precision.
He’s focused of course, his posture relaxed but alert, and his attention is narrowed to the task in front of him like the rest of the world just doesn’t fucking exist.
Like me or the world don’t exist.
And apparently so has my ability to think like a functioning adult.
I shift in my chair and tell myself not to be ridiculous, but it doesn’t help.
There’s something obscene about watching him like this.
Not preforming or proving, but just existing in his element.
Sleeves rolled up and forearms flexing subtly every time he writes or adjusts a page.
My gaze sliding to his jaw that is set in concentration, lips pressed together in a way that makes my mouth go dry for reasons I refuse to unpack.
It’s not fair.
He said it very clearly. That the next time we crawled off into our baser instincts, I’d have to come to him.
At the time, I’d bristled and maybe even pushed back a bit. Told myself it was a power play I could ignore.
Now?
Now it feels like a countdown ticking loud and obnoxious inside of my head.
So I’m watching him like the freak I am, because I can’t stop myself.
He hasn’t moved much, but the light has shifted just enough that it catches along the sharp line of his cheekbone.
His hair has fallen loose from whatever habitually neat arrangement he favors, a dark strand slipping forward toward his eyes.
Ugh, my stomach does that thing where it flips without permission to.
I narrowly bite back my groan and look back to my sketchbook, deciding it’s the bane of all my problems.
Get it together.
This is not some rom-com montage where staring equals destiny. This is a cabin in the woods with a man who could dismantle me psychologically before lunch if he felt like it.
I sneak another look anyways, because—you know, self-deprecation and all.
This time, I just let myself have it.
I study the way his shoulders stay relaxed and the stillness of him that isn’t lazy. Like he’s coiled inward instead of sprawled out. Like everything he does is deliberate, even breathing.
There’s something deeply unfair about how attractive competence is.
My knee starts bouncing before I notice it and my hand shoots down to clamp it into submission. Across the room, Alex pauses. I swallow as his pen stops moving and his head lifts slowly so that his eyes could find mine.
Heat floods my face instantly, like my body has decided honesty is no longer optional and insanity is in.
“Do you need something?” He asks mildly.
“No,” I choke out far too quickly.
His gaze flicks down briefly; just long enough to take in my posture, the way I’ve leaned forward without realizing, elbows on the chair, chin in hand. Yeah, it’s obvious what’s up and the asshole knows it. He’s just… playing with his dinner.
“You’ve been staring again,” he observes, amused.
I scoff, sitting back abruptly. “I have not.”
“Sadie.”
“Don’t say my name like that.” I glare at him.
“Like what?”
“You know what. Like you’re about to diagnose me and you’ve already got it all figured out.”
He smirks. “I don’t need to diagnose you. Your body language is doing most of the work.”
“Okay new rule: you don’t get to analyze me outside of sessions. And since this is one big shit show and not a session, it means the analyzing isn’t allowed.” I grumble and waggle my finger in the air beside my head.
“I like rules,” he muses.
“Sure you do. And… maybe I’m just bored.” I counter.
“Unlikely.”
“Excuse me?” I huff.
“You are many things right now, but bored is not one of them.” He grins, tapping his pen to the table.
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just in my line of sight.” I mutter.
“Then move,” he gestures easily.
I open my mouth—
And then close it right back.
Instead of giving him the satisfaction of further argument, I huff and sink deeper into my chair. “You’re insufferable.”
“I just want you to know, I am thoroughly enjoying this moment.” He grins, tapping his pen next to his chin. Purposefully drawing attention to his mouth.
“I’m sure you are, asshole.” I mutter and snap my sketchbook shut.
“Just admit you know what’s actually happening and we can let the moment pass.” He chuckles, relaxing his arm along the back of the chair.
“Oh, please.” I scoff. Not even sure why I’m still denying it anymore.
“You’re allowed to want things.”
“I know that,” I snap.
“Do you?”
I hesitate just a fraction, my eyes narrowing on his words.
“Because from where I’m sitting, you look like someone arguing with herself over a decision she’s already made.” He continues, setting the pen down now and relaxing fully into his chair.
“That’s a bold assumption.”
He shrugs. “I’ve been wrong before.”
I click my tongue against the back of my teeth and hold his gaze. Trying to decide if I want to push this further or retreat while I have dignity. The problem is, dignity feels overrated right now.
I stand abruptly, pacing toward the counter under the guise of needing water. I focus on the simple act of filling the glass, or maybe just the motion of it. Either way, I feel him watching me.
“You’re doing it again.”
“What am I doing?” I sigh, turning back to him.
“Circling.”
I arch a brow. “Is that what we are calling it now.”
“I just want you to stop pretending this is all accidental.” He counters, of course.
“I’m not pretending.”
“Then what are you doing?”
The answer moves on my tongue—wanting you, hating that I want you, resenting that I know it—but I don’t give him that.
Instead, I lift my chin and scoff. “Thinking. God forbid.”
He watches me for a long beat then simply turns back to his work.
Fuck.
Ugh. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
How do we do any of this? How do I let him in without falling the sixty stories we are standing on and splat all over the concrete at the bottom? I’m not sure if it’s possible. I think all of that is the point.
It’s supposed to hurt. We’re supposed to both bleed out on the floor until there is nothing left to give over but the truth. I’m just—
I’m terrified of that truth.