Page 19 of Glass

He said you looked at me like it was the only thing that mattered. He was right. I did. I just didn't know it was different until it was already done.

I almost see it.

The knot recedes. Teddy eases off slowly, careful as he has been about everything since he woke, and doesn't go far. Rolls onto his side. Stays close. His hand comes down on the sheet between us and the backs of his knuckles brush the backs of mine.

I don't move my hand.

My watch is on the nightstand. The club is quieting in the distance. His breathing goes slow and even beside me. The bass of the main floor has dropped another step; it's close to last call out there. I have a thirty-seven-minute post-knot buffer built into the night I planned. I don't reach for my phone. I don't reach for the watch.

The amber light is the same amber light it has been.

I don't move.

Vaughn

Ikeep a spare shirt in my locker because I always keep extras of everything. I'm the kind of person who plans for a ruined shirt. I'm the kind of person who plans for a ruined shirt. This spare is identical to the one in the sink: charcoal, fitted, same maker, same fabric. I bought two at once. I do this with most things. It works.

I'm standing at the mirror in the attached bathroom buttoning the third button from the bottom when I notice my hands are steady.

Good.

Fourth button. Fifth. The fabric catches on the bite scab above my nipple. A small tug, a flare of heat under the cotton. I pause, adjust, continue. The scab sits under the shirt now, hidden. Nobody will see it. In two weeks it will be a scar, and the scar will be something I notice in the shower and then forget.

I'm already not thinking about it. Sixth button. Seventh. Collar.

My mask is on. It's straight. My hair is fine. I run my fingers through it once, not changing anything, and catch the movement in the mirror. I stop because it's a fidget, and I don't fidget.

Teddy is visible in the mirror behind me.

He's face down on the bed, one huge hand open on the pillow, the other tucked under his chest. The sheet is at his waist. His bare back shows the marks of the night: the bruise on his shoulder blade, the nail marks I left, the paddle marks on his sides fading from purple to brown. His mask is on. His breathing is slow and even. From this angle in the amber light, he looks like the kind of person you'd want to make breakfast for.

That isn't a thought I'm having. I'm already past it.

I don't turn around to look at him directly. The mirror is fine. The distance is fine.

I finish the last button. My collar sits flush against my throat. The man in the mirror looks exactly like the man who walked in last night. Clean shirt. Good slacks, already on, belted, the buckle click satisfying the way it always is. Cufflinks from the small tray in my locker. Dress shoes. I look polished and sharp and entirely intact and I hold the look in the mirror for one second longer than I need to and then I turn around.

The room is small, warm, quiet. The amber light stays the same. The bass from the main floor is gone. Last call must have been hours ago. The private rooms at the end of this corridor are insulated well enough that I wouldn't have heard it anyway.

I walk back into the main room. My shoes are quiet on the carpet but not silent, and Teddy stirs behind me. I hear the sheet shift. His breathing changes.

I'm at the foot of the bed when he opens his eyes.

He sees me. I watch him take in the clothes, the shoes, the mask in place, the posture. He sees me. I watch him take in the clothes, the shoes, the mask in place, the posture. I watch him understand what all of it means.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't ask me to stay.

I'm grateful for this. I'm aware that I'm grateful for it, which is new for me. I've never needed an alpha to make my exit easy because my exits have always been easy.

I walk to the edge of the bed. Teddy sits up slowly, carefully, bruises and soreness and a body that's been through more in one night than most bodies go through in a year. His hand moves toward the sheet. Instinct. Cover up, the impulse to stop being seen. I make a small flat gesture. Don't.

His hand drops. The sheet falls away. He's bare. Everything I did to him is visible in the low light: the paddle marks, the crop lines on his inner thighs, the handprints I left on his thighs, the nail marks on his back that I see when he shifts. He's carrying a week of my work on his skin. He'll carry it until it fades, and then it will be gone. That's how this works.

I say, quietly, in the tone I always use to close a scene:

"Kneel."

He goes to the floor.