Chapter 44 I saw you
Bastian finally lifts his head, turning his face toward mine, and whatever sharp, sarcastic retort I had queued up just evaporates. Completely wiped, like someone hit delete on my brain mid-thought.
He looks at me with his eyes slightly narrowed, a slow, searching gaze that feels like he’s trying to map out my features through a thick fog. It’s not that he can’t see me, I’m standing right there, but it’s as if he’s trying to reconcile the version of me in front of him with something else entirely. I tilt my head, my own gaze sharpening as I take him in properly.
Every detail.
Every subtle shift.
It isn't just the bone-deep exhaustion I saw on Wednesday. There’s a glazed, heavy quality to his expression that makes my pulse spike with a different kind of alarm. I swallow hard, tracing the unnatural stillness of his face. He doesn't seem all the way present.
"Are you high or something?" I ask, my voice cautious. I lift my hand, slowly waving it through his line of sight like I'm trying to snap him out of a trance. His eyes follow the movement, delayed and heavy, before they finally lock onto mine.
"Your car’s locked," he says.
His voice is gruff, dry, and completely matter-of-fact. It’s the first time I’ve heard him speak in days, and the sound of it hits me in a way that’s completely disproportionate to the words themselves. Like a physical weight vibrating somewhere low in my chest.
I blink, my confused gaze darting from him to the driver's side door, then back to his face. I give a slow, incredulous nod. “...Yeah,” I say slowly, brows pulling together. “That’s usually how that works.” Then, dry as hell, “What, you try to break in and take it for a spin or something? Hate to break it to you, but it doesn't have a push-to-start.”
He doesn’t answer that. Instead, he just tilts his head slightly toward the car. “Unlock it.”
My brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“I need a ride.”
I let out a sharp scoff. “Do I look like a damn Uber driver to you?”
I glance around the lot, searching for his car. Because there’s no way this is a serious request. He probably has three backup vehicles on standby at any given moment. But he just reaches for his jacket on the hood. He picks it up, folds it with a precision that feels automatic, then drapes it neatly over his arm before turning back to me. His stance slightly less steady than it was a moment ago. "I drank past the legal limit," he says, the words clipped and dangerously honest. "I’m not fit to drive."
The sound of laughter filters through the lot, and I’m instantly on high alert, my head snapping toward a group of strangers heading for the street. When I turn back, Bastian has shifted. He’s standing straighter, squared off and facing me, reclaiming that space he naturally commands.
Like he’s snapped into place, attention zeroed in, every inch of it directed at me. Now that he’s closer, I can catch the faint scent of alcohol clinging to him.
"You’ve gotta be kidding me," I mutter, loud enough for it to land between us.
He doesn't flinch. He just watches me with an unsettling, focused intensity, like he’s waiting for me to throw a punch so he can see if he still has the reflexes to catch it. It’s a sparring session without the gloves.
“Take a cab,” I say flatly.
He gives his head a slow shake, then shrugs. “I don’t want to.”
He takes another step, closing the distance until I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact. I look away, my gaze darting toward the lingering strangers. "Someone will see," I hiss, the paranoia blooming in my chest.
"Then unlock the car."
I look back at him, and for a second, I’m pinned. Even half-wrecked, he has this chilling, high-voltage energy that should be a warning sign. It’s a cold, magnetic vibration that makes my skin itch and my heart hammer against my ribs. It shouldn't be attractive, it should be terrifying, but somehow the danger just makes the pull even more visceral.
He holds out his hand, palm up, his fingers steady despite the haze in his eyes. "Keys."
I open my mouth to tell him to go to hell. I have the "no" ready, fueled by four days of resentment a decade of common sense. But instead of the rejection, what actually slips past my guard is the one thing I promised myself I wouldn't ask.
"Where were you?"
It comes out quieter than I expect. Less bite, more...something else. Real in a way I don’t like. And I hear the difference. The curiosity and concern is there, clear as day, and I’m almost certain Bastian hears it too.
A slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips, the kind that says he’s already read my mind and found it wanting. Before I can process the look, he reaches out. His hand doesn't hesitate, he hooks two fingers into the front pocket of my jeans, right where my keys are tucked against my thigh.
The intimacy of the move sends a jolt through me. I glance down, my hand instinctively snapping shut around his wrist to yank him away. "What the hell are you—"
“I saw you,” he interrupts.
The words land smooth and certain. They cut clean through mine and I still. Then I slowly look back up at him. His eyes are on me, unwavering. “Lurking around my office,” he continues, almost conversational. “Hovering near my car like you were waiting for something.”
His blue eyes glint as his gaze sharpens.
“Waiting for me.”
My spine goes ice-cold. It’s like he’s reached into my chest and pulled out the most embarrassing, pathetic truth I’ve been trying to bury for days. A heat I can't control floods my face, burning right up to my ears. I want to look away, but I can't let him have the win.
I scoff, sharp, shaking my head like the whole thing is ridiculous.
“That’s...no,” I weakly shoot back, voice trembling despite my efforts “I wasn’t...."
He chuckles, it's a dark, grainy sound. Like he doesn’t believe me for a second. Like he doesn’t even need to argue it. Somewhere between grabbing his wrist and getting defensive, I’d loosened my grip just enough for him to take what he wanted.
He pulls my keys out and without breaking eye contact, presses the fob. The 'chirp-chirp' of my car unlocking sounds like a surrender.
Instead of letting go, he rehooks those two fingers back into the denim of my pocket and pulls. He doesn't have to use much force. I go, my body betraying me as I stumble into his space, my chest nearly brushing his.