Page 31 of Dash

I don’t know how to answer that, so I shake my head. “It’s all good. See you tomorrow.”

I’m rereading the message as I walk out to my bike. It’s polite, devoid of Dayna’s usual sharpness and snarky tone.Which fucking worries me, but also makes me wonder if she’s trying.

It’s an apology wrapped in uncertainty.

I climb on my bike, pull on my helmet and hit the road. The ride to her place feels like it takes an eternity and by the time I stop outside her building, I’m vibrating with tension.

I pass through the front door, scowling at the broken lock, and scan the mailboxes in the foyer to find her name.

There’s no lift in the building and her flat is on the fourth floor. I’m breathing heavily by the time I step onto her floor, but when I knock on the door, I have this sudden need to lay eyes on her.

There’s no answer. So I knock again. I’m not leaving this flat until I know if that message meant something more.

I’m about to call her when the door opens. Her eyes flare wide, as if she didn’t think I’d come.

I scan her face, looking for new wounds that might have landed since I last saw her, but she looks beautiful. No makeup, her hair tangled into a messy knot, soft leggings and bare feet.

She’s still wearing my hoodie and that unlocks something primal inside me.

“Shit,” she hisses. “You didn’t think to message and say you are on the way? A girl likes to get ready before being confronted by the embodiment of sin.”

She darts down the narrow hallway, leaving me standing in the door like a moron.

The embodiment of sin?

Fuck me.

I follow inside, shutting the door behind me. The lock doesn’t catch the first time, nor the second.Does anything in this fucking building work?

Finally, I get it shut and move through her space, taking in everything. It’s small, but she’s tried to make it homely. Thereare little touches everywhere, pictures and ornaments, soft furnishings and candles. When I step into the living room, my hoodie is draped over the end of the couch as if she tore it off the moment she stepped into the room.

She’s now bustling around in the tiniest fucking top I’ve ever seen, searching the room like she’s on a treasure hunt.

“Your front door is broke,” I say, leaning against the wall, out of the way of the whirlwind of motion.

She waves a hand. “It works ninety per cent of the time.”

Is she fucking serious?“The door is broke downstairs, which means anyone can just walk into the building, and now, you’re telling me that your front door lock—the thing standing between you and danger—only works now and again?”

She lifts her head to look at me and I clock the stunned surprise in her eyes. Has no one ever cared enough about her to worry about these things?

I see the moment she brings down the shutters. “No, I said it works most of the time. Ninety percent isn’t now and again, Dash.”

She drags open a drawer under her unit, which has the saddest TV I’ve ever seen. It can’t be more than twenty-four inches.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a jumper.”

“You had a jumper. You were wearing my hoodie.”

There’s a pause before she scowls at me. “I can’t give it back to you if I’m wearing it, can I?”

“I don’t want it back.”

“Oh.” She frowns, then straightens. “Then why are you here?”

I’m confused. And I get the feeling that might be my default setting when it comes to her.

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