My half of the room always feels colder than yours, even when the candles on my side spill their glow across the line between us. Your space smells faintly of old paper and something sharper — not quite smoke, not quite metal, but you. I'm never sure if I like it because it's pleasant, or because it's yours.

You're leaning against the headboard, book in hand, eyes flicking up only when I step into the dimness. Batsy looks at me the way you always do — like you've already read me, cover to cover, and still keep me around for the margins.

You say something low — a wry observation, probably about how I never sit still — and tilt your head just enough to make it an invitation. You never ask outright. That's the trouble with you. I pretend to hesitate, just so I can watch the way you tilt your head, the faintest curve touching your mouth. You never smile for real, but you have a hundred almost-smiles, each one worse for my pulse.

When I reach the bed, you set the book aside — slow, deliberate. My knees sink into the mattress, and the cold of your space creeps through the sheets until my skin prickles. You don't move to touch me, not right away. You just look, and I can feel the weight of it all the way to my bones. He's not going to start anything, I think, even as I lean a little closer. He'll make me do it. He always does.

Finally, your hand reaches up, fingers brushing my jaw like you're testing the edges of a fragile thing. You call me fire hazard, like you always do, and it sounds almost fond, though you'll deny it if I ask. Your thumb lingers against my skin, and I can't help it — I lean into you, into the cold, into the kind of danger I know better than to want.

And still, I do.