Come Here

Adrian called before replying.

“Tonight?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“All right. I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

“You don't have to sound like you've been standing by the door.”

A pause.

“I was at my desk.”

“That wasn't quite a denial.”

“No,” he said. “It wasn't.”

When he arrived, he carried takeaway from the restaurant where we'd had our first dinner. The pasta I liked. Bread still warm in its paper sleeve.

“I can leave it here if you've changed your mind,” he said.

“Come in, Adrian.”

He did, carefully, as though my narrow hallway had become unfamiliar ground.

I took the bag and put it in the kitchen. When I turned, he was still by the table, coat buttoned, hands empty.

“You can take that off.”

He looked down at himself.

“Right.”

I had seen him negotiate while three people tried to interrupt him. Watching him forget how to remove a coat made my throat tighten.

He draped it over a chair. I sat opposite him.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

“I read Amara's report,” I said.

“So did I.”

“I'm glad Dad returned the money.”

“I know.”

“I needed that to be true.”

His eyes stayed on mine.

“But it doesn't make your signature disappear,” I continued.

“No.”

“And I don't want you to come here and tell me you'll never miss anything again.”

He breathed out slowly.

“I can't promise that.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“I would have known you were saying it because you wanted me back.”

His face changed at the words.

“I do want you back,” he said. “But I don't want you to have to believe something impossible to stay.”

I looked down at my hands.

“That was what frightened me. I liked you for so long before you even knew. Then you liked me back, and suddenly I wanted to make everything easy.”

“You didn't make it easy.”

“Inside my head, I did. I kept deciding which things I could overlook. You forgetting lunch. You giving me a two-word answer because you were busy. I started wondering whether I'd overlook anything as long as you still wanted me.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees.

“I don't want that.”

“I know. But I need to be able to be angry with you without feeling as though I'm going to lose the whole thing.”

“You can be angry.”

“And you need to tell me when you don't know something. Or when you're afraid to look. Before I find it in a box.”

He nodded.

“I was ashamed in the archive,” he said. “I wanted there to be one sentence I could say that made me different from the person who'd signed without checking. There wasn't.”

I listened.

“I can't undo it. I can give people access to what happened and accept what they decide about my part. And when I don't want to face something, I can tell you instead of making the decision around you.”

The kitchen clock clicked behind him.

I thought of him standing beside Mrs. Ortega's workbench. Of the records he had sent even when they made him look worse. Of the way he had not tried to turn my message home into permission to keep talking.

“I was unfair too,” I said.

He started to shake his head.

“Let me finish. I saw Vale on the building and Vale on your signature, and I put everything your uncle did into your face. You were responsible for what you signed. You weren't secretly him.”

“I understand why you were hurt.”

“I know. I'm telling you because I want to be able to see you clearly while I'm hurt.”

His gaze dropped to the space between our chairs.

“I missed you,” he said.

There was no charm in the sentence. It sounded scraped clean.

I stood.

He looked up but didn't move.

“Come here,” I said.

For one second, I saw him decide whether he had heard correctly.

Then he stood, and I stepped into him.

His arms closed around my back. I put my face against his neck, and he let out a breath so uneven that I held him tighter.

I had missed the weight of his hand between my shoulder blades. The warmth of him through a shirt. The way he bent slightly to fit his cheek beside mine.

Neither of us spoke for a while.

When I finally drew back, he kept his hands loose at my waist.

“I'm still going to disagree with you about things,” I said.

“I'd be worried if you stopped.”

“Many things.”

“I've met you.”

I touched his cheek. His eyes moved to my mouth, then back up.

This time, I closed the distance.

The kiss was soft at first. I could feel the question in how he held me, the careful patience. I slid my hand into his hair and kissed him again until his arms tightened and the distance between us disappeared.

When we separated, he rested his forehead against mine.

“Can I stay?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“For dinner?”

I looked over his shoulder at the cooling pasta.

“For dinner. After dinner. You can ask again in the morning if you're feeling uncertain.”

He laughed into my hair.

We ate standing in the kitchen because reheating the food seemed more urgent than finding clean forks and sitting properly. He washed the plates afterward. I dried them badly and put them in the wrong cupboard on purpose.

“You live here,” he observed.

“And yet I remain unpredictable.”

Later, on the sofa, he pulled my feet into his lap.

“I kept wanting to tell you things,” I admitted.

“What things?”

“Maya liked the revised plan. Someone brought a dog into the office. I found a book you'd like.”

“Tell me now.”

So I did. I told him about the dog and the book and the fact that the office printer had finally broken beyond my ability to guilt it into working.

He listened as though I had brought him something precious.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I bought the wrong bread.”

“That was your major event?”

“You like the one with seeds. I picked up the plain one and thought I'd hear about it, then remembered you weren't coming over.”

I looked at him.

He rubbed his thumb along my ankle.

“The apartment was very quiet.”

I moved into his lap and put my arms around his neck.

“Then you should have said that when I asked who missed whom more.”

“You haven't asked.”

“I was about to.”

“I missed you more.”

I blinked.

He kissed the underside of my jaw.

“Any other questions?”

For once, I couldn't think of one.

Much later, I woke to find his arm heavy around my waist and his face half buried in my pillow. Rain tapped against the window. I turned carefully, trying not to wake him.

His hand tightened.

“Stay,” he murmured.

“I'm getting water.”

He opened one eye.

“Bring some back.”

“Demanding.”

“Please.”

I kissed his forehead before going to the kitchen.

Monday would still require a room full of difficult people. We would still have to answer questions, and the warehouse might still prove more expensive than anyone hoped.

But when I returned, Adrian lifted the edge of the blanket for me without fully waking.

I slipped beneath his arm.

For that night, being wanted was simple.