Chapter 18

Two days before Amelia's birthday, the library is a graveyard—silent but for the faint clatter of keyboards and the intermittent, angry whirl of the coffee machine in the lobby. Amelia and Conrad have annexed a double table in the back, a haphazard tangle of note pads and drained paper cups their only sign of occupation. Conrad claims he likes the solitude for studying, but Amelia suspects he mostly likes the reliable company and the sense of being invisible to everyone who isn't her.

She's highlighting a particularly brutal passage about Pumping Lemma when Theo appears in the aisle, hands splayed and face pure mischief.

"Well, well, well," he proclaims, stage-whisper loud, "if it isn't the most boring couple in Palo Alto."

Tyler and Agnes appear behind him, their grins matching Theo's wattage. "We've been looking everywhere for you," Agnes announces, as if the library is a hidden speakeasy and not exactly where someone would expect to find Amelia at 4 p.m. on a Wednesday.

"We're not a couple," Conrad mutters, not looking up from his notebook, but his pen stalls on the page.

Tyler snorts, slumping into the seat opposite Amelia. "Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourselves that." He kicks his feet up on the edge of the desk, ignoring Amelia's look of horror at the dirty sneakers so close to her color-coded tabs. "Anyway. The point is: you're both losers and we're here to save you from yourselves."

Theo leans over Amelia's shoulder, his cologne a citrusy assault on her concentration. "Birthday drinks. Friday. It's happening. We're going out. No protests, no fake coughs, no 'I have a migraine' text at 9:15 like last year that resulted in us having to gather at yours instead"

Amelia's cheeks turn pink, but her eyebrows arch with practiced disdain. "I actually did have a migraine last year." Agnes snickers. "Sure. If by migraine you mean 'full season of The Crown and two pints of Ben & Jerry's.' We ignored you then, we're ignoring you now."

Theo grins, delighted. "And we're proud of you, honestly, but this year we're enforcing tradition. I already made a reservation at El Camino."

Tyler holds up his phone. "I'm literally setting a calendar invite right now."

Amelia glances at Conrad, who meets her eyes just long enough for her to see the private joke there: this is all ridiculous, but maybe not the worst thing in the world. She sighs, snapping her highlighter closed.

"Fine. You get two hours of my life, and then I'm bailing."

"Three hours," Theo counters, "and you have to wear something that isn't flannel."

"Four hours," Agnes adds, "and you have to wear makeup." She wiggles an eyebrow in a way that is equal parts threat and promise.

"Five," Tyler says, "and if you don't show, we're sending a singing choir to your apartment."

Conrad uncrosses his arms, the tension in his shoulders easing. His mouth quirks at the corner.

"What about you, Fisher?" Theo leans across the table. "Golden boy gonna join the party?"

Conrad rolls his eyes "I don't know why you guys make those kinds of jokes all the time. I'll have you know I was quite the rebellious teen"

Agnes snorts "you know it's all in jest, you don't have to lie"

Conrad lifts one eyebrow. "I was smoking weed behind the pool shed when I was seventeen."

The library silence breaks. Agnes's palm hits the table. "Bullshit."

"Not bullshit," Conrad says, chair tilting back slightly. "Same year the cops gave me a ride home after busting a bonfire. Half the towns teens were there. We'd been drinking."

He falls quiet, watching their faces recalibrate. Amelia catches that glint in his eye—the one that appears when he's enjoying someone's surprise.

Theo whistles low. "Damn, Fisher. Hidden depths. Still need to loosen up though. When's the last time you got some action?"

Conrad tips his head back with a groan. "I'm not celibate, Theo."

Tyler nearly chokes, coughing through a laugh.

"Could've fooled me," Theo fires back. "You're so buttoned-up, I half expect to see a clerical collar."

"How recent are we talking here?" Tyler presses, narrowing his eyes. "Because as far as I'm aware, you haven't been with anyone since we met."

Conrad shrugs, vague, letting the silence do most of the work. "It's been a while," he says simply, tone flat enough to cut off any follow-up questions.

But the moment he says it, his mind betrays him. He can still feel Belly's weight in his lap, her knees digging into the mattress of her guest-room bed. Her mouth pressing hot and insistent against his as she kissed him breathless. The cool metal of the infinity necklace he gave her brushing against his lips when he bent his head to her throat. He remembers how she'd laughed softly, tugging at his hair, and for a split second it's as if he's right back there—like no time has passed at all.

Conrad grits his teeth and shuts it down hard. Stop. Don't. The images leave a sour burn in his chest, old grief dressed up like desire. He hates that his brain still sometimes does this—pulls her forward like some ghost he can't exorcise even though he knows the intensity he felt towards her is gone.

Almost without realizing it, his gaze drifts sideways. To Amelia. To the smooth stretch of skin at the hollow of her throat, visible where her sweater slouches off one shoulder. The soft dip there catches the dim light of the library, subtle but magnetic. He forces himself to look away, dragging his eyes back to the table, back to the safety of his notes and the mess of pens.

Except when he risks a glance up again, Amelia's eyes are already on him. Not sharp or questioning—just steady. Like she knows where his attention had been, like she'd felt the weight of it. For half a beat, neither of them looks away. Then she tilts her head, a small smile curving her lips. It's quick, almost gone before he can decide what it means.

Heat prickles up the back of Conrad's neck. He busies himself with his notes, pretending he didn't just get caught staring. Pretending it hadn't felt like she'd caught him thinking something he wasn't ready to admit.

When the others finally migrate to the vending machines, probably to scavenge some exceedingly sweet snack and gossip about them from a safe distance, Amelia nudges Conrad's knee under the table. "You're not going to let them dress you up too, are you?"

He doesn't look up, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips. "I don't think I'm the main event." "You could be," she teases, "if you wore literally anything that wasn't a sweater or striped polo."

He turns the page, but she sees his ears flush pink. "I'll go. And I'll even try to let loose a little" he says, "if you will too."

The morning of Amelia's birthday, Conrad shows up at her apartment before she's even properly awake. Her hair's messy, her sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, but her face softens instantly when she sees the small white bag in his hand.

"Happy birthday Mills," he says softly, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and letting his lips brush against her hair for just a moment.

"I got you an Almond croissant from that bakery you like," he says pulling away and holding it out. "And coffee. Two sugars, no cream."

Amelia takes it like it's sacred. "You are an actual angel."

Before Conrad can answer, her phone lights up. She groans, answers, and puts it on speaker. "Hey, Mum."

"Happy birthday, my love!" Elizabeth Harrington's crisp accent fills the kitchen, somehow maintaining its polished edge despite the phone's tinny speaker. Amelia gives Conrad an apologetic look as her mother launches into questions about the evening's celebrations, then pauses mid-sentence. "And is that Conrad I hear?"

Conrad's posture shifts, shoulders squaring as if he's been caught in class without his homework.

"Hello, Mrs. Harrington."

"Conrad Fisher, still so formal after all this time," comes the crisp reply through the speaker. "It's Liz, darling. Liz."

He clears his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. ""I'll try to remember that, Mrs. Harrington."

Amelia hides behind her coffee cup, listening to the familiar dance between them, her mother's exasperation and Conrad's stubborn politeness colliding like always.

As the day drifts on, they slip into their familiar pattern. A movie hums in the background, half-forgotten, while Amelia sprawls across the couch with her legs thrown into his lap. Conrad's hands move without thinking, massaging the muscles of her calves in slow circles. It's routine by now, but there's something grounding in the weight of her, the trust of the way she leans into him like he's safe to rest against. He tells himself it's nothing—just habit, just comfort. Still, he catches himself memorizing the curve of her ankle beneath his palm, the way her breath hitches when he presses into a knot of tension. When the credits finally roll, the spell breaks, and he stands a little too quickly, needing space to breathe. The kitchen is cooler, quieter. He pulls the small teddy bear from where he'd hidden it in a bag, setting it on the counter before he can second-guess himself. It looks almost ridiculous there, soft brown fur and stitched-on smile staring up at him. He feels stupid suddenly, too exposed. What if it's too much? What if it just makes her cry? He swallows, wishing his hands didn't feel so clammy. She pads in behind him, and he forces himself not to fidget, not to snatch the bear back and pretend it was never there. Instead, he keeps his eyes fixed on the counter as Amelia steps closer. Her fingers hover, then brush lightly over the teddy's fur, hesitant—as if she's not sure what she's about to find. "Conrad—" Her voice catches. He shifts his weight, eyes darting to the floor. "Your mum had this old video. I asked her to send it to me." When Amelia presses the bear's paw, static crackles before her father's voice emerges: "Hey, pumpkin. Look at you! Happy birthday sweetie, daddy loves you lots." The sound of the recording plays, and even though it isn't his memory, Conrad feels it like a punch through her chest into his own. Amelia stiffens, clutching the teddy as though she can keep her father inside it if she holds on tight enough. Seven years gone, and the man's voice still fills the room like he never left. Conrad's throat tightens. He'd wanted this to mean something for her, but seeing the tears shining in her eyes, he wonders if he's tipped her straight into pain. "This is cheating," she whispers, blinking hard, trying to laugh but failing. "Too much." He feels the corner of his mouth tug upward, a weak defence against the lump in his own throat. "The real present is back at mine. Giant jar of Skittles. No green ones. Should last you until next year minimum." Her laugh breaks on a sob, fragile and jagged, but real. "You absolute bastard." The words come out like affection, not accusation. She pushes up onto her toes before he can overthink, sliding her arms around his neck. Conrad goes still for a fraction of a second, and then he gives in. His chin drops against her temple, the crown of her hair brushing his jaw. His hands find her back automatically, anchoring her to him, anchoring himself. He breathes her in—the faint sweetness of her vanilla perfume, the warmth of her skin beneath layers of fabric—and his chest aches with something that feels too close to longing. "Conrad, I can't even—" she mumbles into his shirt. "It's nothing," he says, except his voice is rough, uneven. He tightens his grip, as if to make sure she doesn't slip away. "For you? Nothing." The kitchen feels suspended in amber. Afternoon light spills across the counter, gilding the crumbs of her croissant, the soft fur of the bear, the air still humming faintly with her father's voice. But Conrad barely notices any of it. All his focus is here—in the press of her body against his, the steady warmth of her, the way she fits into the hollow of his arms like she belongs there. And suddenly, brutally, he's aware of it. Aware of her. Aware of himself. That this—holding her like this, feeling her breath against his collarbone—doesn't feel like friendship anymore. It feels dangerous. Necessary. Like crossing a line he's been pretending doesn't exist. For a heartbeat, he lets himself stay in that thought. Lets himself imagine that it wouldn't be wrong to want more. Then he locks it down, shoves it into the quiet corner of his chest where he keeps everything else that hurts. But the awareness lingers. It doesn't leave.

The sash was Theo's idea—of course it was. He'd rummaged through Amelia's dresser drawers and triumphantly emerged with a strip of cheap, bubble-gum-pink satin that caught the overhead light and gleamed like a neon sign. Glittery block letters, each fleck of sparkle raised and rigid, screamed BIRTHDAY GIRL in a font so loud it might have been heard across the city. "The world needs to know, Amelia," Theo had declared, fastening it diagonally across her chest with two eager thumbs.

Amelia rolled her eyes but didn't fight him. She tugged at the soft wool of her slate-gray sweater—ribbed at the cuffs, slightly pillowed at the shoulders—and eased it down so the sash lay flat. "If this thing gets me free drinks, fine. I'll wear it." She gave the satin a playful tug, then let her lips curve into a small smirk. "My mum always joked I was a terror because I was born the night before Halloween. Guess I'm living up to my rep."

Theo laughed, the sound loud in the quiet apartment, then stepped back to give her an exaggerated once-over. "Yeah, except the only terror here is your outfit. That sweater? Tragic." He tapped one finger against his chin, theatrically pensive. "You're the birthday girl, Mills—go change. Something hot."

Amelia gasped, mock-offended, clutching the fabric at her throat. "What's wrong with my sweater?"

"Nothing," Theo said, voice deadly serious. "Except it's your birthday, and you're not supposed to look like a grad student buried in books. Go. Change."

Before Amelia could protest, Agnes—with a grin wide enough to be wicked—shoved her gently toward the bedroom closet. "He's right. Tight dress. Short hem. Gotta show some cleavage. C'mon, birthday girl."

Conrad sat on the edge of the threadbare couch, pretending to scroll through his phone. A single lamp cast an amber glow across the room, spotlighting the girls through the door way as they rummaged through hangers and drawers. He keeps his eyes on the phone, but his ears catch every word, every giggle, every rustle of fabric.

"While they're busy, what's your game plan?" Theo asks suddenly, dropping into the armchair opposite, handing Conrad a beer.

Conrad raises an eyebrow. "My game plan?" His voice is flat, cautious.

"For tonight," Theo presses. "You gonna finally admit you like Amelia and do something about it? Or just sit here and let her move on with someone else?"

Conrad's jaw tightens, pulse kicking in his throat. "I don't know how many times I need to say it, but we're seriously just—" "Friends," Theo cuts in, tone dripping with disbelief. "Yeah, yeah, we all know. Except I've also seen you almost snap your neck because you heard her laugh and wanted to know why she was laughing. But sure, go ahead and keep selling the 'just friends' line."

Tyler, sprawled on the other end of the couch, doesn't look up from his phone as he adds, "For real, Fisher. If you stare any harder, you're gonna burn holes through her jeans. It's painful to watch."

Conrad shifts uncomfortably, twisting the beer bottle in his hands, the glass damp from condensation. His voice lowers to almost a whisper. "Look, maybe it's platonic, maybe it's romantic, maybe we're too afraid to find out. But she's the most important person in my life. And I refuse to risk losing that for a possibility of more when she's already given me more than I ever expected—or deserved."

Theo studies him for a long moment before placing a hand on Conrad's shoulder. "I know your history's a mess. I know you're scared. But just... imagine the what if. Imagine how much you're shutting yourself off from."

Conrad wants to scoff, brush it off, pretend it doesn't matter. He tells himself he doesn't care. But his throat goes dry.

Because that's the exact moment Amelia emerges from the bedroom.

The little black dress is one he's never seen before. The fabric clings to her curves like it was made for her, hem riding high on her thighs, neckline plunging just enough to catch the low apartment light against the sweep of her cleavage. His pulse stutters hard, traitorous.

She does a slow turn, hair brushing her shoulders, the dress shimmering with every shift.

Theo whistles, loud and appreciative. "Yes. That's it. That's the one."

Tyler finally looks up from his phone, eyebrows shooting skyward. "Holy shit. Amelia, you're gonna cause traffic accidents."

Conrad doesn't say anything—can't. His grip tightens around the bottle, but his eyes won't leave her. And Amelia notices. Her gaze flicks to his, lingering for a breath too long, and she bites her bottom lip—flustered under the weight of his stare, like the intensity of it unsettles her as much as it does him. Conrad's first instinct is to look away, to pretend he wasn't caught staring, but he can't make himself do it. The sight of her lip caught between her teeth, the faint flush rising on her cheeks—it locks him in place. It's too much and not enough all at once, and for the first time he wonders if she feels it too.

By the time they tumbled into the Uber, Conrad already felt stranded. Flickering streetlights slid past the windows; the city smelled of rain and exhaust. He wasn't much of a bar guy—sticky counters and neon signs had never been his scene—but Amelia had asked him to come, and that settled it.

Inside the dive bar, the air was thick with spilled beer and laughter. Theo immediately declared his mission—to see how many complimentary drinks he could wrangle for Amelia—and Tyler pulled out his phone to tabulate the score. Agnes flounced among the tables, introducing Amelia to anyone within arm's reach as if she were crowned royalty. The bar's sticky floor slapped at their shoes with each step; a neon Budweiser sign buzzed overhead.

Amelia played along effortlessly, tossing her hair, flashing perfect smiles at every barkeep and stranger. Each time a new drink—bright blue cocktail, frothy pint, or a tall gin and tonic—landed before her, Theo would roar triumphantly, Tyler would tap out the latest tally, and Conrad...felt a tightening in his chest.

He tells himself it's just protective instinct. He's making sure no creep lays a hand on her. That's all. But when a guy with slicked-back hair sidles up to the bar, slides a gin and tonic toward Amelia with a wink, and lingers just a little too long as she offers him a polite smile, something inside Conrad coils tight. She doesn't even drink it—just takes a token sip through the straw before nudging the glass toward Theo, who's still finishing the last conquest drink. Conrad's chest burns anyway. Before he can think better of it, he's on his feet, crossing the small gap between them. His hand settles firmly at the small of her back, possessive in a way that surprises even him. He leans down, his breath brushing against her temple as he reaches over her shoulder and takes the straw between his lips. He sips, deliberately slow, his gaze locking with the stranger's. The guy falters, glances away, mutters something under his breath, and disappears back into the crowd. "Jealous?" Amelia asks, her voice lilting with amusement, though her eyes shine with something sharper, more curious. Conrad straightens, his palm warm against the curve of her spine before reluctantly falling away. "Figured the others had more than enough free drinks. Seemed fair it was my turn.," he says, voice rougher than intended. "Besides, Theo's three drinks past coherent. If he keeps this up, he won't make it to Denny's party tomorrow." Amelia arches a brow. "Oh? That your subtle way of calling dibs?" "Not subtle," he counters, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Effective." She laughs, shaking her head, but there's colour high on her cheeks now. "Well, don't expect me to flirt with random guys just to feed you gin and tonics." "I'm not complaining about the delivery system," Conrad says, eyes flicking briefly to her mouth. "Could get used to it, actually." Her laugh stumbles, caught halfway between a scoff and something breathless. "Careful, Fisher. Almost sounds like flirting." He leans in just enough for only her to hear, voice low, teasing. "Who says it isn't?" Amelia blinks, lips parting slightly before she quickly looks away, flagging down Theo with some sarcastic comment about keeping score. But Conrad catches the way she fiddles with her straw, the way her posture has shifted—like he's unsettled her balance, just as she's constantly unravelling his.

The night keeps spinning: more drinks, more laughter, more noise. Amelia keeps playing along, tossing her hair, letting Theo and Tyler parade her like some kind of prize, but Conrad feels that heat under his skin growing every time another guy looks at her too long. He tells himself he's imagining it, but Amelia's gaze keeps drifting back to him, quick, sharp glances that feel almost like a dare. Eventually, they're shoved toward a quieter corner of the bar, half-hidden by shadows and the hum of conversation. Conrad leans against the wall, needing the support. Amelia tips her head back, laughing at something Agnes shouts across the room, and when she looks at him again, there's lipstick smudged just outside her lip line. Without thinking, he reaches up, his thumb brushing along her bottom lip, wiping away the smear. His touch lingers, just a fraction too long, the pad of his thumb resting against the curve of her mouth. Amelia stills. The world seems to narrow to just this: the press of bodies around them, the dim lights overhead, the steady thud of the bass muffled beneath their silence. Her lips part slightly under his touch, and his pulse jumps. "Conrad..." she breathes, barely audible, her eyes flicking to his mouth. His hand doesn't move. He can feel her warmth, her breath, the invisible thread pulling taut between them. He leans in, closer than he's ever dared before, his forehead almost brushing hers. And then— "Shots! Birthday shots!" Theo crashes back into the corner, waving a tray like he's announcing the second coming. The spell snaps. Amelia jolts back, Conrad drops his hand, and just like that, the moment is gone. Amelia laughs too loudly, running a hand through her hair, while Conrad pushes off the wall, expression shuttered. But his thumb still tingles with the memory of her lips, and the taste of almost is enough to leave him restless long after they leave the bar.

The next night, Conrad stands before the full-length mirror in his dimly lit bedroom, tugging at the collar of his stiff leather jacket. The material creaks with each adjustment, the sheen catching the pale glow of his desk lamp. He exhales into the glass. Indiana Jones.

He still can't fathom how Amelia convinced him to dress up. When she arrived earlier, her dark hair plaited into a sleek, rain-slick braid, denim cutoff shorts framing legs that make his chest hitch, dual holsters strapped low on her hips, his objections evaporated. She'd given him a look that said try me, and he had—once, twice, then stopped.

"You look like an action figure," he mutters, voice low, as she steps into the room, the plastic toy gun clicking mock-threateningly in her hand.

"And you look like you're about to lecture students on the fragility of ancient pottery," she counters, arching an eyebrow as she perches the hat atop his tousled hair. Her smirk is a challenge. "We're hot. Admit it."

He opens his mouth, then shuts it. The heat in his chest says enough. The memory of last night—her black dress, the brush of her lips against his thumb, the almost-kiss that still hums in his veins—makes him acutely aware of every curve, every shadow of her body.

Denny's frat house is chaos incarnate, walls draped in cobwebs, fog machine hissing, bass rattling the floorboards, the sickly tang of candy corn mixing with stale beer.

Amelia disappears into a knot of her friends, laughter trailing behind her like confetti. Conrad hovers near the edge of the living room, jacket tugged tighter, pretending to survey the crowd—but his eyes follow her, always her, noting the way she leans into jokes, the sway of her hips as she navigates the throng.

Before long, a red-horned devil—her costume complete with a sequined tail—sidled up to him. She brushed her lacquered nails along his forearm with a sly grin. "Hey, Indy. Want a drink?" Her voice was honeyed but carried a predatory edge.

Conrad had only begun to shake his head when Amelia reappeared, confidence radiating from her like heat from a forge. She slipped her hand around his elbow, fingers curling possessively. "Actually," she said, voice low and smooth, "we're about to do shots."

The devil lifts one painted brow, scowls, and melts back into the crowd. Conrad swivels to Amelia, surprise flashing across his features. "What was that?"

She raises her red Solo cup to her lips, the rim leaving a perfect lipstick kiss. "She was being annoying."

"Jealous?" he teases, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

"Don't flatter yourself." She brushes past him, but the sudden flush in her cheeks betrays her. He follows, closing the distance into a quieter corridor—thick walls swallowing the party's roar, leaving only the low hum of bass and his pulse thrumming in his ears. A single bare bulb casts a halo of muted light over the cracked linoleum.

Conrad leans against the chipped cinderblock wall, arms crossed, voice teasing but edged with curiosity. "You always this possessive?"

Amelia tilts her head, shadows flickering over her defiant expression. "Only when guys act like idiots."

"Guess I should be flattered you're paying such close attention," he murmurs, stepping closer, letting the warmth of his presence brush against her.

Her jaw tightens. "You think you're so irresistible."

"Maybe I am," he replies, a smirk tugging at his lips, voice dropping low, silk over steel.

She holds his gaze, daring him, the challenge clear in the fire of her eyes. "So, are we going to pretend last night didn't happen?" she asks, voice teasing yet bold.

"Is that what you want?" he counters, stepping even closer.

"I want you to decide for yourself," she says, lips curving in that dangerous smile that makes his pulse spike.

"And if I said what I wanted was you," he murmurs, close enough that her warmth brushes his chest, "what would you do? Tell me it's a bad idea and I'll ruin our friendship?"

"It's almost insulting how little you think our friendship could survive," she says, the teasing edge still sharp but laced with vulnerability.

"And if I said..." he pauses, gaze tracing the line of her jaw, the tilt of her neck, "...that I've wanted this for months. That every damn moment I've tried to act casual, I've been thinking about you. Thinking about this?"

She leans in, the space between them electric. "I'd say you're doing too much talking for those kinds of feelings."

Conrad smirks, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, thumb lingering at her jaw. "Then maybe I'll let my actions do the talking."

Maybe if it was another night, a night where he wasn't five beers deep, a night where he hadn't spent hours trying to pull his eyes away from her, he might of thought about it for a moment. But that wasn't tonight. Tonight, he didn't hesitate.

Before she could reply, he braced one hand on the wall beside her shoulder. The other slid around her waist. His mouth crashed against hers, fierce and luminous. The corridor shrank until it contained nothing but the heat between them, the rough scrape of her back against concrete. His lips moved urgently, tasting the sharp sweetness of her mouth—sugar, vodka, something wild. Amelia's arms wound around him, fingers digging into his shirt. The kiss deepened, raw and unrestrained, every second a fracture of tension built over months. Their bodies pressed together in an electric pulse, oblivious to the world beyond that narrow hall.

Then— "Amelia?" A distant voice, Agnes, called. "You better not be throwing up somewhere"

They freeze, breaths jagged. Amelia yanks her braid forward, lipstick smudged across her cheek, a faint flush creeping up her neck. Conrad's heart hammers so loud he's sure the whole house could hear it. They straighten, wipe the dampness from their lips, and slip back into the fray as though nothing has changed. Fog machines curl smoke around dancing bodies, the bass pounds like a heartbeat, cheap beer sloshes in plastic cups—but Conrad can't shake the friction still sparking between them. He steals a glance at her, and the realization hits him with the force of a freight train. Holy shit. I'm fucked, he thinks, chest tightening, pulse surging, and a part of him thrills at just how completely he doesn't care.