Page 63 of His to Hunt

"No."

"Because I wasn't going to. It's been like three weeks, Luna. If you said the L word right now, I'd have to drown you in that glass." She gestures to my drink. "That would be basic best friend protocol."

I laugh, barely, but it's genuine.

She narrows her eyes, studying me intently. "So if it's not love... what is it?"

I glance down at the drink in my hand, watching condensation gather and slide down the glass. I swirl it once, then look back up, meeting her gaze with as much honesty as I can muster.

"I don't know," I whisper. "But I can't stop going back to him. I'm drawn to him in a way I can't explain. In a way I hate, but also, don't hate."

The silence between us stretches just long enough to become dangerous, filled with all the things neither of us knows how to say.

Avery hasn't touched her coffee in two minutes. That alone should qualify as a federal emergency in the hierarchy of our friendship. Her drink sits forgotten, ice melting into the coffee until it's more water than caffeine.

I shift in my seat and glance toward the rooftop bar's edge, where the wind kicks up just enough to brush my hair off my shoulders.I should feel free up here. Exposed sky above me, fresh air in my lungs, endless noise below.

But my fingers drift unconsciously to the velvet at my throat like it's still the one controlling my breath, like a part of me is tethered to him even now, even here.

"Are you scared of him?" she asks finally, dropping all pretense of casual conversation.

My gaze snaps back to hers.

Avery isn't playing anymore. This isn't banter or teasing. This is her looking for a red flag, a reason to pull fire alarms.

"No," I say, and I mean it. "I'm not afraid of him."

She tilts her head, studying me. "Should you be?"

I don't answer that one.

Because I don't know.

"He hasn't hurt me," I say instead, meeting her gaze steadily. "Not like that. Not in any way I didn't..."

I trail off, unwilling to finish that sentence. She doesn't need those details.

Her expression doesn't shift, but I can see it—the mental checklist flipping behind her eyes. She's looking for bruises, shadows, tension. She's always been better at reading what I don't say than what I do.

"And you're not in love with him," she repeats, more like a warning than a confirmation.

"I'm not," I say firmly.

"But?" she prompts, because she knows me too well to believe there isn't one.

I exhale slowly. "But I think about him more than I should. When he's not there, I..." I pause, struggling to find words for the emptiness that forms in his absence. "I wish he was."

Avery lets out a slow breath through her nose. "Do I needto start vetting safe houses? I've got connections from that weird phase when I dated the conspiracy theory guy."

"I'm not leaving," I say firmly.

"Okay, but just in case, do you want north-facing windows or city views? I'm partial to a good escape route myself, but you've always been more about aesthetics."

I laugh, this time for real, and shake my head as a server approaches our table.

We both order—something light, something overpriced, neither of us really hungry. The waiter nods and disappears, leaving us in a moment of false normalcy.

When he walks away, Avery doesn't miss a beat. Her expression shifts from concerned friend to something more serious, more focused.

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