4. Lena #2
“Which is just looming with extra steps.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger—in thought. “You shouldn’t joke,” he says quietly.
“Oh, I definitely should,” I reply. “It’s either this or hyperventilating.”
He steps closer without seeming to realize he’s doing it. The sun climbs higher behind him, and the room brightens enough that the shadows no longer swallow him completely. I can see the shape of his mouth beneath the mask. The tension in it.
“I’m extremely calm,” I reply. “On the inside, I’m screaming. But I’m choosing growth.”
A beat. The corner of his eye shifts slightly. Amusement? Maybe.
“You’re trying to control the situation,” he says.
“Yes. With sarcasm. It’s my primary survival skill.”
He studies me another long second. “Does it usually work?”
“Not always,” I admit. “But it makes me feel productive.”
The light catches the edge of his jaw through the mask. Even without seeing his full face, I can tell he’s unfairly symmetrical. Tall. Solid. Controlled in a way that isn’t loud like the other one. I shouldn’t be noticing that.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“So are you.”
“I’m assessing.”
“I’m appreciating.”
That earns a slight shift in his posture. “You can’t appreciate what you can’t see.”
“Oh, I can,” I counter. “You’ve got the whole intense-masked-mystery thing going for you. Very niche. Very dramatic.”
“That’s not intentional.”
“That makes it worse. Now it’s natural.”
His head tilts slightly. “Are you flirting with me?”
There’s no accusation in it. Just confusion, like he’s trying to categorize what’s happening and coming up short.
I grin despite myself. “I might be,” I say. “It’s hard to tell. I’ve had a weird night.”
“You think this is funny?”
“No,” I answer honestly. “I think you’re interesting. Which is worse.”
Silence stretches.
He doesn’t step back. He doesn’t step forward. But something in the air shifts—something charged and unsteady. “I’m not what you think,” he says quietly.
“That’s bold of you,” I reply. “You have no idea what I think.”
He steps a little closer, and the rising sun outlines his shoulders. “You shouldn’t,” he says quietly.
If I knew better, I would think he was disturbed. “Shouldn’t what?”
“Flirt.”
“Why?” I tilt my head. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, and the silence stretches just enough to be interesting. I let my gaze drift over him deliberately. The way he holds himself. The tension in his hands. The way he doesn’t fidget.
“You’re very intense for someone wearing a mask,” I say. “It’s kind of unfair. I can’t even see your face and you’re still… distractingly hot.”
The word hangs between us.
He stiffens. “That’s not possible,” he says flatly.
“Oh, it’s extremely possible. Trust me.”
“You don’t know what I look like.”
“True,” I admit. “But I have eyes. You’re tall. Broad shoulders. Voice like you’ve read too many serious books. It’s a strong starting point.”
His jaw tightens beneath the mask. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?” I tease gently. “Afraid I’ll fall in love with your mysterious vibe?”
“I’m not—” He cuts himself off. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me,” I say, softer now. “Because from where I’m standing, masked stranger, you look pretty objectively attractive.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he says, voice tightening.
“I know exactly what I’m saying,” I reply lightly. “You’re intense. You’re mysterious. You keep staring at me like I’m either about to combust or solve a riddle. It’s… compelling.”
“It’s not compelling.”
“It is a little compelling.”
“You don’t see me,” he says.
“I’m looking directly at you.”
“You’re looking at a mask.”
“And you’re hiding behind it.”
His shoulders go rigid. “You think this is a game,” he says, anger threading through the calm. “You think because you can make a joke out of it, it isn’t real.”
“I don’t think that,” I say, more quietly now.
“You don’t know what I look like.”
“I’ve got a decent imagination.”
His jaw tightens beneath the black fabric. “You think I’m… what?” he pushes. “Attractive? Safe? Interesting?”
“I think you’re standing between me and a locked door instead of tying me to a chair,” I say. “Which is a strong start.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The light is fully in the room now, washing over the concrete and catching in his hair. He looks almost unreal in it. Too controlled. Too contained.
“You don’t understand,” he says again, sharper this time. “You don’t get to decide something like that without seeing.”
“Seeing what?” I challenge softly. “What are you so convinced is disqualifying?”
Something in him snaps. It’s not loud. It’s not explosive. It’s like a wire pulled too tight.
He rips the mask off. The motion is abrupt, almost violent, and the black fabric drops to the floor between us.
For a split second, my brain registers symmetry. Then it registers the rest.
The right side of his face is exactly what I expected—sharp cheekbone, beardless jaw, striking blue eye.
The left?—
Burned.
The skin is tight and uneven, pulled slightly toward his temple. The scar drags down his cheek, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. It isn’t fresh. It’s healed. But it’s permanent. Impossible to miss.
He’s breathing harder now. “Still?” he demands.
There’s anger there. But underneath it?—
Fear.
“Do you still find me attractive?” he asks, voice rough. “Or were you flirting with the mask?”
The room feels smaller suddenly. Quieter.
He stands there like he’s braced for recoil. Like he’s already decided what my answer will be.
I stare at him. Not because I’m horrified, but because I wasn’t expecting it. The scar is brutal and honest and impossible to ignore. It pulls at the skin along his cheek and down his neck, a story written into him without permission.
For a split second, my brain blanks.
And then something far more inconvenient happens. Heat spreads low in my stomach. God help me. He thinks I’m going to flinch. I can see it in the way he holds himself—braced, jaw tight, waiting for disgust. Instead, my pulse spikes for an entirely different reason.
He steps forward suddenly and grabs my wrist. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm. Grounding. Demanding.
“Answer me,” he says, voice rougher now. “What do you have to say now?”
My back hits the wall behind me and he cages me there without even meaning to. Tall. Solid. Close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.
I swallow. My heart is racing, but not from fear alone.
“You really thought that would scare me off?” I whisper.
His grip tightens slightly. “It usually does.”
“Well,” I murmur, meeting his eyes, “I’m not usually.”
His breath stutters. “You don’t have to lie,” he says.
“I’m not lying.”
“You don’t look disgusted.”
“I’m not.”
Silence stretches, heavy and charged. I can feel my body betraying me—skin warm, nerves buzzing, the sharp awareness of him this close. The scar doesn’t make him less attractive. If anything, it makes him real.
“You’re still hot,” I say softly.
His jaw flexes. “That’s not funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
He searches my face like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“There’s nothing wrong with your face,” I continue, quieter now. “You survived something. That’s not ugly.”
His grip falters for just a second. “You don’t understand,” he says, but there’s less anger in it now. More something else. Raw.
“Then explain it to me,” I challenge gently.
His thumb shifts against my wrist, and the contact sends a sharper pulse through me than it should. “You shouldn’t want this,” he says.
“You don’t get to decide that,” I reply.
His eyes darken, conflict warring there—guilt, disbelief, desire. “I could hurt you,” he says.
“Right now?” I ask softly. “Or in theory?”
That almost pulls a broken laugh out of him. “You’re reckless.”
“I’m honest.”
He leans closer, just enough that our foreheads nearly touch. “Say it again,” he demands quietly. “Now that you can see me.”
My breath catches. “You’re still,” I say, holding his gaze, “distractingly attractive.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. And the only thing louder than my heartbeat?—
Is his.