Page 10 of The Satyr Next Door
“What’s happening here?” she whispered.
Dangerous question. I could have deflected. But she deserved honesty.
“What’s happening,” I said, voice low, “is that a woman who knows the power of stories is finally living in one of her own.”
She set her mug down carefully, as if her hands weren’t steady.
“I don’t live in stories,” she whispered. “I just translate them.”
I hummed and tilted my head. “From where I'm standing, it looks like you’ve been translating your life into something smaller. Safer. More acceptable. Less than what it could be.”
The words struck home. I saw it in her grip on the chair arms, in her sharp inhale, in the way her knees pressed together to contain the want I was stoking.
“You don’t know anything about my life,” she said. But it lacked bite.
“I know you come out earlier every morning.” Another step forward. “I know you dress more carefully. I know you kept my terrible poetry. And I know it’s not just for the coffee.”
Her walls trembled. This was the edge of retreat or risk.
“What are you really asking me?” she whispered.
The truth: not for a neighborly chat. Not for safe curiosity. For something that would complicate both our lives.
“I’m asking if you remember what it feels like to want something just because it’s beautiful,” I said roughly. “Not safe. Not practical. Just alive.”
Her lips parted. For a moment I thought she’d flee. Instead, her eyes searched mine, weighing.
“I remember,” she breathed.
Something unfurled inside me. Tender. Victorious. Because she wasn’t looking at me as other anymore. She was looking at me as a choice.
“I should go,” she whispered. But she didn’t move.
“Should you?” My voice was gentle, but I held her gaze.
“My work…” Her eyes skimmed me, my chest, waist, where human gave way to satyr. No flinch. Only fascination. “People are expecting—”
“Your work will wait,” I said. “Words endure. They’ve waited centuries. But this—” I gestured between us. “This is rarer than translations. Rarer than safety.”
Her breath quickened. She was memorizing me with her eyes.
She saw me. Not the myth, not the Integration Council’s success story. Me. Cal. A man tolerated, observed, but never chosen.
Until now.
“Tomorrow,” I said, making it a promise, not a question. “Ask me what I want from you. And I’ll tell you the truth.”
Her pupils blew wide. Her scent spiked until I had to grip the fence to keep from leaping it.
“That sounds dangerous,” she whispered.
I smiled, letting her see the points of my teeth. “The best things usually are.”
For the first time in too long, I felt truly visible. And utterly, completely alive.
Chapter 6
Gina
