Page 11 of Kisses and Paperclips

I let the silence breathe, let the tension stretch, watching her the way she’s watching me.

“Don’t we all have two sides?” My voice is smooth and steady. “Matter of fact, layers?”

She hums, unimpressed.

“Sure, people have layers,” she said, her tone easy, almost casual. But her eyes? They don’t match. They’re cutting through the space between us.

“But people with sides—like a coin?” She lets the words settle, slow and intentional. “That’s different. That’s a little more dangerous. Makes you wonder how much of the other side they’re hiding.”

I smirk. “And what side do you think I’m hiding?”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to.

The way she watches me says it, she doesn’t trust me.

I lean forward slightly, lowering my voice. “Are you afraid of me, Serena?”

Her body doesn’t shift, or tense. She just watches me, gaze unreadable.

Then, finally, she said, “Not really.”

But there’s a flicker behind her eyes. Something that makes me press my forearms against the table, letting her feel the weight of my presence.

“What does that mean?” I asked.

She tilts her head. “I fear all men to a certain extent.”

I blinked, surprised not by what she said, but by her casual tone.

Matter of fact and unapologetic. She picks up her drink, swirling the liquid slowly before taking a sip. “I’d be naïve if I didn’t.”

I become serious, leaning closer slightly. “You afraid of me, Serena?” She doesn’t answered right away, she sitting in the silence.

I don’t know why that lands the way it does. Maybe because she doesn’t say it like an accusation. Doesn’t dress it up to make it easier to swallow. Just states it—like it’s fact.

Fear like that isn’t born, it’s taught and pressed into you, moment by moment, until you stop questioning it one day. Until it becomes instinct. Someone, somewhere, made her learn. That stays with you. The honesty in her words catches me off guard.

I stare at her, the weight of what she said settling deep in my chest. “People can break you so badly, it makes you fear an entire demographic.” Her expression shifts. The teasing flicker in her eye dims, that sexy, knowing smirk fading into something quieter, guarded.

Her brows pull together slightly. “I’m not broken.”

I don’t flinch or backtrack, watching her closely.

“Maybe not.” My voice stays even, easy. “But we’ve all got broken pieces—jagged edges that cut if you get too close. That’s just being human.” Her shoulders eased a little.

I watch her as I swirl the whiskey in my glass, letting the silence stretch. Letting the heat between us settle into something thick and charged.

“What do you do?”

She lifts a brow, visibly intrigued at the shift in conversation. “For work?”

I nod. “I’m curious. You seem to have men all figured out.”

That slow smirk tugs at her lips, the kind that says I just walked into something I won’t walk out of the same.

She lifts her glass, takes her time sipping, unrushed. Making me wait. Then, setting it down with a soft clink, she tilts her head, eyes gleaming.

“I work in lingerie.”

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