"Would you like a coffee?" I said into his shoulder, not wanting to move and yet knowing we couldn't stay in the doorway forever. "And I'll tell you what happened."
He pulled away slightly, and there was something in his eyes, an intensity that I'd never seen before, that made me oddly nervous.
"The coffee can wait. And I know what happened."
I arched an eyebrow at the edge in his voice. "Jack contacted you?"
"Jack or the Directorate didn't tell me squat."
Confusion swirled, and right in amongst it, apprehension stirred. "Then how do you know what happened?"
"Because it's what always happens. Your job got messy and you totally forgot about the other people in your life while you were dealing with it."
Ouch.
But at least his comment explained the reason for the edge in his voice and the anger in his eyes. "I was supposed to meet you for lunch, wasn't I?"
"Yeah." He gripped my arm and led me over to the sofa. "But as usual, I wasn't first in your thoughts."
"That's not true - "
"It's been true from the word go," he said grimly. "I've just done my best to ignore the fact until now."
He sat me down, then sat down on the sofa opposite. "We need to talk. Here and now."
"I agree."
He raised an eyebrow. "You do?"
"Yes. Because I've come to a decision."
"And what might that be?"
He said it in an angry, resigned sort of way that made my heart ache. He was expecting the worst, and that was my fault, because I'd never really given him anything more of myself than a few weeks away together. Every time he'd asked me for more, I'd asked for more time. I kept saying I wanted a relationship, but every time he tried to pin me down, I'd made up excuses or reasons as to why I couldn't.
Well, not anymore.
"I want to make the commitment and go solo with you. I want to see if this thing between us is real or not."
He stared at me for a moment, the intensity in his eyes sharpening. And suddenly there were butterflies in my stomach and my heart was doing a crazy sick dance.
Because something was wrong.
He wasn't reacting in the way I'd expected at all. There was no joy, no relief, nothing. No damn reaction at all. He just sat there, looking at me, with that odd intensity in his eyes and a tautness around his mouth.
"Say something," I said softly. Pleadingly.
"That's great."
But it was mechanically said, with no warmth or feeling behind it. And yet the air was sharp with tension, and his green eyes fairly burned with emotion. What exactly that emotion was I couldn't say, because it seemed a mess of anger, desire, determination, and God knows what else.
It frightened me, as his response to my words was frightening me.
What was going on?
Why was he doing this, reacting like this, when he'd finally heard the words he'd been pressing me to say for weeks?
I didn't understand it, but I feared it.
God how I feared it.
I crossed my arms and leaned forward on my knees, my hands clenched out of his sight. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," he said abruptly, then sighed and ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. "And everything."
"That doesn't tell me a whole lot," I said, and this time there was a touch of anger in my voice. But its source was the fear. The concern over the way he was reacting.
He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head. "You really don't see the problem, do you?"
"If I did, I wouldn't be sitting here feeling so sick to my stomach. I'd be trying to fix whatever it is."
He leaned forward and pulled a hand free from under my arm, wrapping his fingers around mine. His skin was warm compared to mine, his touch strong and steady. "Why didn't you ring me when you couldn't make lunch?"
Exasperation ran through me. An exasperation wrapped in anger, and it made my voice sharp. Or maybe that was the fear twisting deep inside. "Because a psycho knocked me out and kidnapped me."
"So why didn't you ring me when you were free?"
"Because there was still stuff to do, things that needed cleaning up."
"So they were all more important than making a simple phone call?"
"I just wanted it all over so I could concentrate on you." You and me. I bit my lip and blinked.
Dammit, I would not cry.
I wouldn't.
Not until I was sure there was something to cry about.