“What are you doing?” he murmurs when my fingers dip lower toward the collar of his shirt.
I hesitate. “Touching you.”
He doesn’t pull away as I expect. Instead, he swallows hard and lets his jaw relax. He tilts his chin in chary invitation to continue my exploration, so I keep going. After a moment, he asks, “Why?”
“Geez, Roark, I’m not going to throat-punch you. I just like doing this, okay?”
He sways a little when I trace his collarbone and if he knew he hummed while I did it, I think he’d die from mortification. Instead of commenting on it, I keep that little detail to myself and drop my fingers from his skin.
He blinks and retreats a half step. This time, his laughter’s strangled. “Herne and the hunters, I thought drinking would make you meaner. Instead you’re even more infuriatingly friendly. You’re a golden retriever.”
Well, moment ruined. I glower at him. “Hey—”
“It’s the need for approval.” After a moment he adds, “And the hair.”
I reach up without thought. Okay, it’s getting a little long up top, but the sides are still buzzed pretty close. “Because it’s blond?”
“Because it’s blond. Because you attempt to tame it and can never quite contain its exuberance.”
I blink, pieces of a slightly blurry puzzle coming together. “You’re teasing me.”
“Never.” The corner of his mouth curves into one of his half smiles.
I want his mouth again. I want everything.
I know I didn’t say that aloud, but it doesn’t matter. His eyes darken and the new distance he created between us vanishes when we both take a halting step forward. I reach for him. His hands clench to fists, tighten, but he doesn’t reach back. His face goes blank.
My heart sinks and I try to hide my hands’ shaking when I let them fall back to my sides.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I shouldn’t have teased you. Nothing’s going to happen between us, Finn.”
“Because I’m drunk?”
“Yes. And no.”
“But once I’m sober—”
“No.”
“But—” The protest dies when he raises a single brow at me.
Fuck. I hate this version of Roark. Almost six years together and I haven’t figured out how to earn his trust. I don’t know why he needs such impenetrable walls. Not sure I want to know. Some things are better kept as secrets.
Once he’s assured I won’t argue further, he starts moving again. “Come on.”
I want to pester him with more questions, try to figure out why he kissed the hell out of me and then went all ice king, but he’s always a few steps ahead and he doesn’t look back once. Domovoi’s isn’t far from our apartment. Still, the trip back is long enough that I have far too much time to think. Our trek isn’t quite a walk of shame, but it’s too damn close for my taste. I didn’t even get a happy ending to make it worthwhile.
I nearly run into his back when he stops at the key code pad we use to get into the apartment building. I coil on myself, but the alcohol’s made me relaxed and my muscles don’t respond like I’m used to.
Roark grunts when I stumble into his side instead. For a brief moment, his arm wavers around my waist. Whatever chivalrous urge my clumsiness inspired doesn’t last long. His arm drops and he returns his full focus to the door. “Dammit, Smith, don’t do this to me. If you pass out all the way out here, you’re too heavy for me to lug back upstairs.”
Building code accepted, Roark swings the door open and gestures me inside.
“You could magick me up the stairs. I didn’t have that option with you that one time,” I grumble, slipping past him.
“Your option was a bit simpler, I believe. You could have left me in the field after our fight instead of bringing me home at all.”
“What kind of heartless person would do that?” I protest. I reach out to press a hand against the wall. Okay, maybe I’m drunker than I thought. Either that or my perpetual hard-on has severely impaired my brain’s ability to keep the world from spinning.