Page 85 of Infamous
“I followed you here, Nadia.”
He makes no attempt to disguise the truth. He says it so calmly that for a moment, the words don’t even register as alarming. It’s ridiculous, and yet my pulse quickens.
Hefollowedme.
The right reaction would be fear, maybe outrage. But those emotions don’t come. I just stand there, bag of oranges in myhand, looking at him like he’s the answer to a question I shouldn’t be asking.
Because I already know there’s something off about him. The way he moves is too precise. The way he watches me is too intent. He’s not normal, not safe by any reasonable definition. But I’ve never felt safer.
“I’m making breakfast,” I say quietly, not sure why I’m saying it or what I expect from him.
He blinks once, slow, then nods. The air between us shifts. The sentence hangs there, unspoken invitation and reckless confession rolled into one.
And I realize, with a sudden and horrifying clarity, that some part of me wants him to say yes.
He takes the bag gently from my hands and closes it, his fingers brushing mine for the briefest second. The contact sparks something in me - heat, memory, déjà vu. I look up, and he’s still watching me.
“I’ll carry these,” he says.
It’s such a simple thing, but it feels like more.
I should tell him to stop. I should tell him he’s crossing a line. But instead, I fall into step beside him, like we’ve done this a thousand times before and this isn’t completely insane.
He moves with quiet confidence, his stride matching mine perfectly. Every time I glance at him, I catch a glimpse of something soft under all that hardness - a protectiveness that feels as heavy as it does dangerous.
When we reach the register, I can feel people’s eyes on us. They probably think we’re a couple. The thought makes my stomach flutter in a way I can’t explain.
As we leave the store, I finally find my voice. “You don’t have to carry those,” I say, though it comes out sounding more like a question.
He just looks at me. “I know.”
But he doesn’t hand them over. And I don’t make him. Because deep down, I already know the truth: whatever this thing is between us, it’s not going away. And as terrifying as that should be…I’m not sure I want it to.
51
LUCIAN
We dance around what happened last night like it’s a live wire between us - dangerous if touched, impossible to ignore. On the walk back to her place, we stick to small talk. Weather. Work. The kind of meaningless chatter people use when their bodies remember far more than their mouths are willing to admit.
We know. Both of us know. But neither of us says a damn word.
She glances up at me every now and then, quick, careful, like she’s checking the ground beneath her feet. Like she’s trying to figure out where we stand without actually asking. I can feel her uncertainty humming off her, soft and nervous, and if she only knew - if she had any idea - there’s nothing uncertain about me. I damn well know exactly where I stand.
Last night didn’t confuse anything for me. It didn’t blur lines or make me question intentions. If anything, it snapped something back into place. Something that’s been crooked and starving since the moment she walked out of my life.
And now that I’ve had a taste of her again - now that I’ve felther beneath me, against me, around me - there’s no universe where I let her drift away a second time.
She might be unsure. But I’m not. And I’ll burn every mile between us before I ever let Nadia slip through my fingers again.
Her hand brushes mine when we reach the building, and it’s all I can do not to close my fingers around it. She unlocks the door, steps aside to let me in, and for the first time in a very long time, I follow a woman into her home with no plan except to be.
She sets the grocery bags on the counter and starts unpacking. “You don’t have to help,” she says.
“I know,” I answer, rolling my sleeves up anyway. “But I’m going to.”
Her mouth twitches - half amusement, half resignation. She passes me a pepper, and I wash it under the tap, watching water bead and slide down the smooth side. The domesticity of it is disorienting. I’ve cut throats cleaner than I’ve ever cut vegetables.
The kitchen is small, barely enough space for one, but she moves around me like it’s a dance she’s learning in real time. Every time she turns, she bumps my chest or grazes my arm, and I swear the air crackles with it.
