But I already know I won’t.

The magnetic force of his presence pulls me like a tether in my chest, commanding that I place one foot in front of the other until I’m standing at the door.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt such trepidation about a simple block of wood. It takes me a solid thirty seconds before I finally pull my hand from the depths of my pocket and press the doorbell. If Jack has been watching from inside, he has the good grace to give it a moment before opening the door.

I’ve seen Jack Sorensen a thousand times, in a thousand places. But here, standing at the entrance of his home, it’s like seeing him for the first time. His dark hair. His full lips. The perpetual black wardrobe, tailored to his lethal frame. My breath stalls at the intensity of those cutting eyes that catalog every detail of my face with a long sweep of his gaze. I don’t exhale until he glances behind me toward the road.

“I didn’t see Hayes,” I say as Jack reaches forward to lay a hand on my arm and guide me past where he stands on the threshold. An electric hum shakes the blood in my veins at his touch, but I tamp it down beneath a devious smile. “Not to say he won’t come to peep in your windows.”

The black door closes behind me and locks. “If he does, I’ll fucking flay the skin from his face and feed it to him,” Jack says.

“And they claim romance is dead.”

Jack glances at me with a smirk as he turns a second lock. “Don’t even pretend it wouldn’t make your panties soaking wet, lille mejer.”

“I would need panties for that, but a certain professor with a thing for cold rooms and eating pussy in the office stole mine.” A third and final lock slides into place to the rumble of Jack’s chuckle before he steps behind me to take my coat. “Three locks? That seems a bit excessive, Dr. Sorensen. Maybe you should consider getting a guard dog to keep Hayes away. He and Cornetto are certainly not on friendly terms,” I say with a nod toward the door. A breath of his laugh warms my neck as Jack unravels my scarf, letting his fingers trace my skin as he lifts it away.

“If I did, you’d only give it some ridiculous name.”

“I would. I could see you with an Akita named Creamsicle.”

Jack’s quiet grumble is cut short as my jacket slides from my shoulders to reveal the shirt he lent me the day he stitched my hand. It’s been freshly laundered, but I may have sprayed a little extra Angélique Noire perfume on the collar when I put it on. The sleeves are rolled to my elbow, the top buttons undone to allow glimpses of my black lace bra, and beneath is a simple pair of leggings.

“What’s wrong?” I ask with feigned innocence as I turn a slow circle to face Jack, his eyes darkening as they rake across my body. He hangs my coat next to the door and wets his lips as he drags his gaze to mine. “You said I couldn’t shred it. I didn’t have anyone to bury in it, at least not yet. And since you have my panties I think this is a fair trade.”

There’s a slight flare of his nostrils, a deep inhale. I take a step closer and he swallows. One more and he moves back just out of reach.

“Are you running away from me, Dr. Sorensen?”

A conflicted groan sneaks past his lips. “We have something important to discuss. But if I touch you now, I won’t be able to make myself stop,” he admits when I try to inch closer and he takes another pace back. “I don’t have that kind of restraint.”

“Good thing I didn’t wear the purple shirt with the bow in that case,” I say with a grin. “You could have done all manner of terrible things to me with it.”

“Kyrie—”

“I’ve been wondering, Dr. Sorensen, just what would you do with that ligature, exactly? Maybe tie my hands up and fuck my mouth? Or something…darker…perhaps.”

Jack’s hand darts out and captures my throat, the flesh of his palm tight beneath my jaw. He pulls me in close and looks down into my face. “Must you always test my limits, Dr. Roth?”

My smile is as bright as the sun in a desert sky. “Yes,” I whisper around the tightening pressure of Jack’s hand. “Always.”

His silver eyes are the polished steel of a blade. Desire. Fury. I would balance on this knife edge forever if I could.

Jack doesn’t loosen his grip as he draws us closer together, reeling me in until my chest is flush against his. His lips graze my cheek just next to the bridge of my nose. “Spare me, just for a little while. This is important,” he says, and places the whisper of a kiss to my skin, my eyes closing as his breath stirs my lashes. “Please, Kyrie.”

I nod and Jack’s fingers uncurl from my neck one by one. His other hand finds mine and presses against my stitches, warming my wound without hurting it.

“Come in,” Jack says as he pulls my hand forward and lets it go so that I can walk ahead of him, his touch finding the small of my back. “Make yourself at home.”

I’ve probably heard those words a hundred times. But this is the first instance I’ve really felt like my presence has given life to a space lying dormant.

We rise three steps from the entryway, passing the staircase to the second story, the house spreading into a living room on the right where the skylights of the slanted, high ceilings let in the light of the setting sun. A dining room lays adjacent to it at the rear of the house, the polished black surface of the long table decorated with a simple bouquet in a ceramic vase. I recognize the blue flowers as the same species that Jack left in my office. To the left of the house is a kitchen of sleek white cupboards and spotless quartz countertops. Between the kitchen and dining room is an open door that seems to lead to a sunroom, but the entry is too narrow to see what’s in the space beyond. And throughout Jack’s home is the scent of something new. Not paint but plastic, maybe. Perhaps it’s the furniture, much of which looks unused. With its pristine, impersonal details in shades of black and gray, the house could belong to anyone, or no-one at all. There are no family photos. There’s no meaningful art. The music that flows from speakers spread throughout the house is the only thing that gives me any sense of Jack, though it doesn’t really seem like his style. I know it can’t be true, but it’s as though the space has been lying in stasis, waiting for a breath of life. For me.

“You had Shiraz at the club the other night,” Jack says, pulling me out of my assessment of his home, his gaze a heavy weight on my shoulders. When I turn to face him, he gestures to the couch in the living room in a request to sit. “Do you want the same again?”

“Sure, that would be lovely, thanks.”

Jack gives a single nod and I take a seat on the gunmetal gray couch, turning to watch as he strides away to the kitchen. He opens a fresh bottle and pours a glass of red wine into a black metal stemless glass, then tops up his own drink with ice and Scotch before bringing them both over along with a set of papers tucked under his arm. There’s a spread of charcuterie on the coffee table in front of me, laden with Castelvetrano olives and hummus and cheeses and chutneys, cut vegetables and dried fruits and folded meats. When Jack sits next to me I can’t help the wide-eyed, questioning look I shoot between him and the small feast on the table.

“You haven’t had dinner,” he says simply, passing me my wine and then a small plate from next to the board. His gaze darts to my stitches and then my chest in the general vicinity of my scars, then me as a whole. A subtle frown flickers across his face.

My heart scrapes at my bones.

“Thank you,” I say, wanting to claw a small victory from my constant battle with time. I sit motionless with my plate gripped in my hands just to relish the expression on Jack’s face. It’s one of concern. Maybe a bit of confusion. His irascible nature demands that life submit to his plans, and I enjoy denying him. But there’s something guileless about his apparent worry for my nutritional needs that has me softening, laying the plate on my lap to reach forward and pluck olives and cheese from the board. I’m not really watching what I take, quite honestly. I’m watching Jack’s face, the way he tracks the motion of my injured hand, the way he seems to archive what I choose to take, what I avoid. In reality, I don’t even know half of what I grab, I just keep going until there’s a spread of enough food that he seems satisfied. Only then does he fill his own plate, and he waits until I’ve had a few mouthfuls of food and wine before he draws the papers into his lap.