The lights are out when I walk into the small living room. Only the lamp illuminates the corner of the room, casting everything in a muted golden glow. I drop my purse and key on the shelf beside me. I’m not sure what, but something feels off. It takes a few seconds before I notice him. Cal’s sitting, head slumped forward, hands clasped together and resting on his widespread knees. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack with the cap off sitting on the coffee table. There’s no glass; he’s been hitting it straight from the bottle. The place is rife with the smell of alcohol.

“Callum?”

His head turns slowly, and his tired red eyes do a quick once over. He looks like he’s about to get sick, and I watch as he lets out the smallest pained laugh before allowing his head to fall back into place. I peer down at my dress and heels. I don’t understand the look of disgust he throws my way, but it kind of makes me feel like crap, and self-consciously I wrap my arms around my waist.

“Date night, right? Have fun?” he asks. His words fill the space between us in a sneer. He’s mad at me but for what? My mind veers back to the kiss I ambushed him with. It was meant as a friendly thank you, but Christ, when our lips touched it was anything but friendly. He’s made no attempt to mention it again, and even though I’m a little disappointed, I put it down to him taking it the way it was first intended.

“It was dinner, and yeah, it was good.” I nod, wondering what’s eating at him.

His head snaps around at lightning speed and he pins me with a glare. From his expression, you’d think I’d just slapped him. I don’t like being on the receiving end of that look. Not one bit. My palms begin to sting where my fingernails are biting at the skin from balling my fists so hard; he’s scaring me a little.

“Have I done something wrong? Was I supposed to be working? Is that it?”

Now he laughs out loud, a quick, gravely low rumble, but it’s unsmiling and devoid of amusement. “Fuck, you’re serious, aren’t you?”

I’m drawing a blank. I don’t get the game he’s playing, and I’ve clearly missed something. I stay quiet because really, I have no idea what to respond.

“No, you weren’t down to work tonight,” he sighs and I’m even more confused.

“Oh,” I say gently as I watch him wring his hands together. I wonder if it’s in agitation or a nervous habit. I’m hoping for the latter, although I don’t particularly like either prospect. “Well, then what’s wrong? Why are you acting like you’re mad at me?” I’m more than a little annoyed that I’ve somehow managed to piss off both men in my life tonight, and as far as I know I haven’t done anything wrong.

He stands and pushes his hands through his messed-up hair. I guess it’s not the first time he’s done that this evening; he’s completely disheveled.

“You don’t know—that’s the whole problem, Tweet. You have no fucking clue.”

“Then tell me!” I plead. I’ve upset him, that much is clear, but I have no idea what I’m supposed to have done.

He lifts the hem of his dark gray t-shirt and wipes his face, exasperated.

“Tell you what? What do you want to hear, huh?”

“I don’t know; you’re the one acting out, I’m not a fucking mind reader! Tell me what you’re feeling! Why you’re suddenly looking at me like you hate me!” I don’t mean to cuss, but I’m frustrated and tired and so over this stupid feeling of confusion.

His face pales.

“I don’t hate you, Tweet,” he whispers. It sounds pained, and I watch as he picks up his phone, changes the track that’s playing so low over the Bose system, I’m only just now noticing it. I trace his movements as he pushes the cell into the back pocket of his jeans, and a familiar track filters through the speakers, only a little louder this time. I stand unmoving, my eyes fixed to his as The Killers’ Mr. Brightside begins to play. I’m pissed that he’s decided that now would be a good time to drown me out with his stupid music. If he didn’t want to talk to me, he could have just said so. Turning on music halfway through a discussion is just rude, and I’m about to tell him he’s an ass when the lyrics stop me.

I just can’t look it’s killing me

And taking control

Jealousy, turning saints into the sea

My eyes widen and my jaw feels slack. I must have this wrong, I think, but then I look at him, and my stomach drops in realization. He’s not using the song to cover up having to talk to me; he’s using it to talk to me.

Holy shit.

He takes a step toward me. I take a step back.

“Don’t you get it? Isn’t it obvious to you? I want you. I’m mad because I’m crazy fucking jealous, and you’re oblivious, completely unaffected. I can’t go on like this. It’s driving me mad, Robyn. I can’t play this game we’ve been messing around with. It’s too hard.”

I swallow and feel the goose bumps run from the top of my head to the tips of my toes as he shakes his head at me.

“I sit in here night after night and listen to you tell me how you’re sworn off men after your douchebag ex. How you’re not ready for a relationship, you’re not dating Mr. Bigshot, and it’s all just casual. But you are dating him; you dress up for him when he takes you out. You come home all sunshine and fucking rainbows in the middle of the night. It doesn’t take a genius to work out you’re more than likely fucking him. In my book, Tweet, that’s dating a guy.”

His words are hard and his eyes are soft and I’m so confused. My heart’s in my throat, beating with wild abandonment and I’m stunned into silence.

He’s jealous.

“I want to be the guy that takes you out,” he says dragging his hand down his face again. He looks tired, miserable…defeated.

“When you’re dressed up like that,” he flicks his hand dismissively at me. “I want it to be for me. Not some asshole that you’re casual with. Jesus, Tweet, I just…”

I step forward shaking my head for him to stop.

He does.

I’m not even an inch from him now, and he stands taller, looking down on me with a saddened air radiating around him. His eyes are the color of a hurricane, thunderous and turbulent. A storm is happening behind the glazed clouds of his irises right here and now. He’s breathing heavy, and then I realize that I’m not breathing at all. I take in a deep, shaky breath and blow it out again, trying to figure my next move.

I press onto my tiptoes and wait. I want to kiss him. I shouldn’t. He’s my friend, hell, he’s my employer but I know what the briefest of kisses with him feels like, and I can’t help wanting to feel it again.

His breath hitches.

I know what I’m doing is wrong. On some base level buried deep in the back of my mind, there’s the nagging little alarm going off, blaring out “MISTAKE! MISTAKE! MISTAKE!” And I’m worried that it’s not enough to stop me, to stop this. We’re standing face-to-face, our breath is mingling in the too-close proximity; I breathe out and he breathes me in. The struggle is clear on his face; he’s fighting against the urge to take what we both desperately want but can’t have without killing our friendship. I think better of it and lower back onto my heels. What was I thinking?

“Fuck it,” he growls. I raise my eyes to his the instant his lips smash against mine in a violent assault, and I stumble backward from the force of the impact. They’re so soft and wet, a perfect contrast to the light scruff across his face that’s now scratching against my all-too sensitive skin.

“Wait,” I breathe into his mouth in a feeble attempt to stop this kiss, this amazing, sensual kiss. My hands are in his hair, tugging at the messy strands, pulling and pushing as I try to form a coherent thought. “We can’t—”

“We can,” he interjects and presses his forehead to mine, closing his eyes tight. “You want this as bad as I do, Tweet. Just admit it, let it happen, don’t fight it. Don’t fight us.”