I felt painfully bared to him, wholly exposed. I’d sent him a naked picture of myself. My pale, thin, boyish body. All my flaws, all my imperfections, my feminine failures—he’d seen them.

And he sat there in the shadows, unwilling to show me anything of himself.

The distance between us throbbed. With anger. With lust. Questions and huge fucking secrets.

Beneath my ribs, I ached. Between my legs I ached. My fucking blood ached at the sight of him. I took a deep breath and clenched my hands together in front of me, as if I needed something to hold onto. And maybe I did. I was so adrift.

“I’d like to go home.”

“You can when I know it’s safe.”

“You are not the boss of me.” Really, could I be any more idiotic?

“When you’re in danger,” he said, “I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe.”

“Why?” I asked, baffled by this protectiveness. By his attention. From the first phone call to now, I didn’t understand. Why me?

I didn’t want his concern to mean anything. I didn’t want to be warmed by that in some way. But anger was a blanket that could not cover all of me and my exposed parts soaked it up. I was helpless against that kind of care, I had no…defenses against someone’s worry. For me.

He was silent, there in the shadows. Like he had no intention of explaining himself.

“I don’t need you to do that.”

“Not your choice,” he said, with a shrug. As if my desires were irrelevant in the equation.

“Well, it’s hardly yours. I am not your business, Dylan.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

A few phone calls, some drunk texts, and two ill-advised pictures—that’s all we had between us. A handful of paltry, inconsequential things. How in the world did they add up to something so damn heavy?

“You didn’t want to see me, remember?” I whispered, revealing some of my hurt. “You ended it.”

His silence was agreement. Yes, he was saying. Yes, I ended it. Yes, I didn’t want to see you.

“I didn’t ask to be brought here,” I said, sounding shrill. His silence was making me crazy. Shut up, I told myself. Shut up and forget about him.

“You can go home tomorrow.”

We were at an impasse. Forty feet between us, and every inch was lined with barbed wire and land mines. And it would be easy to turn around and leave. Wait out the hours until that driver came back to take me home.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just walk away and not…ever have seen him.

“Come out of the shadows,” I said.

He rolled toward the bench, his back to me. “Go on to bed, Layla. It’s been a long—”

“Stop!” I cried. The anger and fear and hurt exploded out of me. “Just stop. I’ve been bossed around, thrown into cars, driven to some kind of mountaintop fortress to…you. You, Dylan. You ended it and I still wound up here. To you!” I kept spitting out that word, like it somehow meant something. Like on the stupid weird map of my life he had been some kind of spectacular surprise destination. “I’m exhausted, I’m scared. I’m angry. I’m…” I cut myself off. I was not going to admit that I was turned on. Though, undoubtedly he had to know. He always seemed to know. He knew over a phone and now I was standing here, panting, my body shaking…God. Damn it. He had all the cards and I was standing here barefoot in my pajamas. If there was ever a moment I longed for a bra, this was it. My nipples hurt, they were so hard. I knew he could see them.

“Inevitable,” he said.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not in the mood for games!” I yelled.

I couldn’t see him, but I could tell he was smiling at me. I knew what his voice sounded like when he was smiling. “Games are what you like. Dirty little games. That’s all we’ve got, Layla.”

I fought back the surge of memories of all of our “games,” because I was not going to be distracted. And he was trying to marginalize it, and what we did—what happened between us—couldn’t fit within any margins I’d ever known.

“I know about the accident. The fire. I went to the library and looked you up.”

“It’s not about the fire.” He lifted his hand to the back of his neck like he was rubbing sore muscles there. And I got the sense that he was lying. “The fire is nothing. There are a lot of things I haven’t told you. Things you’d just be better off not knowing.”

“Well, Jesus Christ, Dylan,” I yelled. “Let’s start with something! Let’s start with you telling me one true thing.”

He looked down at his hands, shadows playing over his beautiful body. “You are…beautiful. You look exactly like I thought you would.”

I gasped, the words so unexpected they slid right through my ribs. Right into the meat and blood and bone of me.

“I never imagined you,” I said.

“Probably smart,” he laughed.

“You just…were you. Just Dylan.” Just everything.

He lifted his head, watching me, and I stood there with nothing. In the face of all that he had, the slimness of my existence, its utter weightlessness, was shocking. But I was out to even the scales. Just a little. Just enough that I could look at myself in the mirror tomorrow. Just enough so I’d know that I’d fought for something. My own worth in this game we’d played. I wasn’t a pawn. I was a person.

“And I’m pretty much done with other people telling me what’s best. So, either stand up, or I’m leaving.”

“Layla—”

I turned for the door.

“There are bears out there!”

“I’m not scared of bears,” I snapped over my shoulder, stepping into the living room. Maybe I’d find some shoes in the closet. If I could find the closet.

“Stop,” he yelled from the garage. “Stop, girl. You’re gonna…fine. Fine, Layla! Come back.”

I stepped back into the garage, the door closed tight behind me, my arms over my chest. My feet were so cold they were numb at this point.

Slowly, he stood up from the shadows. He sort of unfurled from the chair. He wasn’t tall. But he was big. He wore a plain white tee shirt over wide shoulders and a big chest that tapered down to a lean waist. His faded blue jeans were low on his hips, held up by a thick leather belt.

I sucked in a breath, light-headed. His head was still in the shadows and he reached over across the bench, his biceps a beautiful gilded curve, and then he tilted the lamp up so it hit his face.

And he turned, facing me full-on.

The scars were pink and shiny up the side of his neck to his ear. The scar tissue spread across the left side of his face like kudzu, touching the corner of his mouth.

But the rest of his face was the same as those pictures in the articles. Striking. Masculine. Those lips…oh God, those lips. The shiny taut edge only made them more compelling. More beautiful.

“Happy?” he said, tilting his head so I could see the extent of the scars. He was uncomfortable, standing there like that in the light. On display.

“No,” I whispered. “I’m not happy.”

I’d thought, somehow, that it would be so much worse. Because the news coverage just stopped. Because he was shrouded in mystery.

But they were just scars. I’m sorry, I wanted to say. I’m sorry for the pain you must have felt. And the fear you must have lived through. I’m sorry that happened to you. But those scars did nothing to change my feelings for him—conflicted as they were.

“Is that why you stopped talking to me?”

He shook his head, the shadows shifting over his face.

“You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?” I asked, knowing the answer before he said a word.

I’d told him things I’d never told anyone before. Things I hadn’t even conceptualized. But he’d shared nothing of himself, because that made sense. I was the one who’d reached for more. Who’d felt so alone that he’d seemed like a friend.

I had no reason to feel betrayed, but I did.

I looked down at my hands, the calluses on the tips of my fingers. Part of my thumbnail was turning black. I’d smashed it the other day trying to get the damn engine on the mower to work. But this…this thing/not-thing between us. It hurt worse.