9. Artemis #3
The hallway to the restrooms branched off from the back of the dining room. It was dimly lit and narrow. Instead of being intimate, which I’m sure the café was going for, it just meant that two people couldn’t pass each other without bumping elbows.
Cozy. Too cozy, because as I passed the man leaning against the wall, he looked me up and down with slow, tacky enthusiasm.
He smirked. “I like watching you walk. Wonder what that ass would look like bouncing on top of me?”
There it was. The second bad thing today. My brain cataloged it with bleak efficiency. Alley kidnapping. Van. Chair. A gross man in a hallway. One of these things was exceptionally traumatic. The other was… a Tuesday. My body reacted the same way anyway—it froze.
This was the part people never understood. It wasn’t that I didn’t know what to say. It was that my system shut down to keep me safe because years of this had taught me that escalation made things worse and politeness sometimes kept you alive.
I opened my mouth—no words came out. Behind me, the door to the dining room opened again. Voices and the sound of clinking dishes spilled briefly into the hallway.
A shadow followed the sound.
Arthur stepped between us with quiet, deadly purpose. His presence alone forced the man back a step. I wasn’t sure how he’d known to come looking for me, or maybe he’d decided on a bathroom break as well.
Arthur didn’t puff up or raise his voice. He didn’t even touch the guy. He simply occupied the space like it belonged to him now. Like there were rules here and the man had just broken them. I had the strangest, sharpest thought: he does not like this—not even a little.
“You owe her an apology,” Arthur said, his voice as hard as stone. “And then you need to leave this place while you still have legs to walk on.”
The man’s smirk disintegrated. He muttered something, stumbling away so quickly I thought he might actually trip over his own regret.
Arthur didn’t watch him go. He focused on me. “Are you all right?”
My throat bobbed as I swallowed hard. “Y-yes. I just… need a moment.”
That was the lie I always used. Need a moment. Not need the world to stop being like this. Just a moment. A moment was manageable.
He nodded once, giving me space instead of hovering.
I slipped into the bathroom and braced my palms against the sink. My breathing felt too big for the small room, too sharp. Not fear, but the crashing wave that came after it.
But beneath it all was a warmth. A steady, reassuring warmth.
Arthur had stepped in immediately. Not possessively. Not to show off. But to protect me.
And it wasn’t just that. Every interaction with this man felt so natural, as if we shared a connection. It was perplexing. Exhilarating.
I splashed water on my cheeks, inhaled, exhaled, and told myself I could behave normally for the remainder of lunch.
Probably.
A few breaths later, I felt myself settle back into my body, enough to return to him without shaking apart.
Arthur was already seated when I returned. He rose slightly as I approached—another green flag—then waited until I sat before doing the same.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked again.
“I am,” I said, still a little shaken. “Thank you for… that.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Of course.” He studied me for a beat, then cleared his throat. “We’ve covered some heavy topics, but there’s so much I still don’t know about you. What do you enjoy? In your free time?”
I huffed a small laugh. “I don’t really have a social life. Unless baking with my elderly neighbor counts. Or talking about book tropes with her cat. And I’m supposed to be writing my dissertation manuscript, but I can’t get past the first page.”
His attention sharpened. “Why not?”
I shrugged. “Fear? Perfectionism? Every time I start, I hear this voice in my head telling me it’s going to be awful.”
“You should ignore that voice,” he murmured. “And for what it’s worth… I understand the social part.”
“You do?”
He nodded, the expression on his face completely sincere. “My closest friend is an old man who used to be my childhood butler. He now serves as my highest advisor. We speak every day.”
I stared at him. “Your best friend is your elderly ex-butler.”
“Yes.”
“And mine is an eighty-year-old retired best-selling screenwriter who bakes aggressively and owns a cat with abandonment issues.”
He considered, then said, “It seems we both prefer friends who possess wisdom.”
I snorted. “Or we’re both just… very peculiar.”
His mouth curved, just slightly. “I like our odds.”
The warmth that spread through me surprised me. It was rare not having to explain myself into something more palatable.
“What about you?” I asked. “Why is this book so important to you?”
He hesitated just long enough for me to notice. “It is important to my family. Finding the missing pages matters. That’s all.”
I didn’t push. I knew that tone. It was the tone people used when grief had jagged edges.
My mind drifted to my parents, and I think he sensed it, because a sort of recognition flickered in his eyes.
So, we talked about safer things. Books and food, places we’d traveled to, places we wanted to travel to. We laughed. We shared bruschetta from the same plate like it wasn’t intimate when it absolutely was.
Somewhere between his smile and the way he listened—really listened—I forgot to brace for the next thing going wrong.
Eventually, he asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”
I nearly choked on a tomato. “No.”
His shoulders loosened. “Good. I mean—not good. Just… informative.”
My pulse fluttered, but I absolutely refused to analyze it.
“And you?” I asked. “Anyone special?”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t have time for romance.”
A tiny pinch bloomed low in my chest, which was ridiculous. I smoothed my expression before he could notice and nodded quickly—too quickly.
“Oh, right. Me either.”
When the check came, he tipped generously—more than generously—and thanked the waitress again with that warm sincerity that made my insides wobble.
He opened the café door for me and waited until I stepped through. The late-afternoon sun haloed him in a way that felt unfairly cinematic.
Back at the car, he did it again—opened my door with that quiet, old-fashioned courtesy that absolutely did not help my ability to form coherent thoughts.
“Ready?” he asked.
Not even remotely. But I nodded anyway. “Let’s go.”
He flashed me that devastating smile, and we got back on the road, heading toward whatever this was.
My chest hummed with a quiet steadiness that seemed to pull me closer to him with every passing mile.
I didn’t examine it too closely.
Because I already knew it wasn’t going away.
My nerves were all soft and pliable, like my veins had been filled with Prozac.
Arthur’s presence had that effect. Being around him was very much like being curled in front of a roaring fireplace after a long, cold walk. It would have been comforting if he hadn’t just told me he didn’t have time for romance.
That part kept looping in my head with irritating persistence. A gentle little warning bell. A reminder that whatever was happening between us wasn’t allowed to mean anything.
I hated that my body kept doing this around him. It had decided he’s a safe place without asking my permission first. Fartie Artie would call it pathetic and start drafting a breakup text to a man I am not dating.
Part of me whispered that I shouldn’t be here.
Another part whispered that I’d never felt more myself.
We weren’t touching, but something in the space between us felt charged. Like a conversation our bodies were having without permission.
My mother’s favorite pastime was to look me up and down, with that little sneer to her lips.
Attention was never neutral in my house.
It came with barbed comments, rules, and corrective consequences.
So, the fact that I could sit here, taking up space, and not feel like I had to shrink was messing with my head, and I did not have the time to unpack it.
When Arthur shifted gears, his fingers brushed mine, and we both went very still.
A low heat stirred in my belly—and it felt terrifyingly right. The worst possible feeling to have around a man who had made it clear there was no room in his life for something real.
I pulled my hand back first. I had to. Because if I didn’t, I might follow that warmth wherever it wanted to lead. And I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Not when he’d already told me the logical outcome.
And I wasn’t allowed to want something real. Not with him. Especially not with someone who thought romance was an unavailable luxury.
Also, I was not going to get emotionally attached to a man who treated a phone like a small bomb and a restaurant menu like a legal document. That was not a plan. That was a cautionary tale.
“Almost there,” he murmured.
“Good,” I managed. “Great. Perfect.”
He smiled without looking at me, like he could feel the panic edging under my calm.
And that was maybe the most alarming thing of all.
Because it made me wonder what else he could sense—and whether the pull in my chest, the embarrassing, impossible one—wasn’t just me imagining things…
But something answering him back.