Page 83 of Hide From Me

“I didn’t—”

“I bet you’d look damn good in cuffs,” he whispers against my jaw, and my knees damn near give out.

Goddamn it. Now I don’t know if I want food, to play, or to drag him into the nearest broom closet and let him handcuff me to a shelf.

He pulls back and hands me a plastic cup full of tokens, a massive slice of pepperoni pizza balanced on a paper plate beside it.

“Just…” I throw the coin at his forehead, snatch both items, and scowl. “Give me that.”

He catches the coin easily, without flinching, holding it up between us. “Put it back, sunshine. I’ll buy you all the coins and food you want. But I fell for the woman who earns what she wants, not the one who takes.”

I groan, glaring at my overloaded hands. Moe plucks the cup from me, places the coin in my palm, and nudges me toward the games. “Eat while you’re at it. Maybe then you’ll stop growling at me.”

I grumble something noncommittal and march across the arcade, slamming the token back onto the console where I found it, as if it’s some dramatic act of repentance.

I don’t look at him again until I’ve got a slice of pizza halfway in my mouth, cheese threatening to fall off the edge. And, of course, Moe shows up just in time to whisper, “You’re acting like that was as hard as I get around you—but we both know that’s nearly impossible.”

I nearly choke.

“Jesus, why do you do that?” I cough, grabbing a skee-ball.

He shrugs like he doesn’t know he’s a walking sex joke factory. “Force of habit.”

“That,” I wave the ball in his face, “That’s what I mean. You always have something to say, even when someone’s being an arse.”

There was that one time he snapped—really snapped—and the memory sends a chill down my spine, but I don’t bring it up. Not yet. I will. When the time’s right.

“Force of habit, I guess,” he mutters again, kicking the toe of his boot into the floor.

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

He hesitates. “I like seeing others happy. It’s like… I get to live through them for a second. Like it’s me feeling it instead.”

“Like a mask,” I whisper.

“Exactly.”

“Why not just be happy yourself?”

“I was once.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the red strands until the darker brown beneath starts to show through. “But that only led to the people I loved being taken from me. When I stopped being happy, they stopped dying.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does to me.” His voice is quieter now. “I was happy with my mother—she got cancer. I was happy with my father and he got shot. But when I stopped trying to chase happiness and started giving it to others... People who deserved to die did and I got to keep what mattered.”

“You don’t actually believe that,” I say, heart aching. “Even if you do… you said it yourself. Everyone is safe now.”

“So why not keep doing what works?” He laughs, and it’s not the kind that makes me smile—it’s the kind that makes my skin crawl. “Why would I change that?”

“Because you deserve more.”

“I don’t.” His voice is steel. “I was handed everything—education, protection, family—by people who didn’t have to do shit for me. The least I can do is be useful. Be selfless.”

“But you’re not,” I say, and when he turns to look at me, I grin. I don't know what demon has suddenly possessed me but I can't keep hearing it–the self hate laced in his words, the fight he seems to have thought he's lost in his head, the fact that he actually believes for a second he doesn't deservemore.

“I'm not?” He murmurs, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, and pulling me closer until our chests brush and our mouths are almost touching.

“You’re selfish. Especially with me.” I whisper.

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