Downtown Asherville is no metropolis, but even so, it's hard to find parking, and Aaron ends up in a spot some distance from the restaurant. I've put more strain on my leg than I should over the last few days, but he already seems on the edge of a bad mood, and I don't want to risk pushing him over it by complaining.

Peppino's Pizzeria is a small, cozy place with lots of dark wood, dim lighting, and an enormous wood-fired pizza oven. The place is almost full, so we sit at the bar.

Not exactly the image I had in mind when I envisioned bringing him out to dinner, but I'll take what I can get.

"What do you like on your pizza?" he asks.

Ever since we got in his car, there's been a weird, blank look in his eyes. I can't tell if he's just tired, or if it's something else, but I wish I could make him laugh, or smile. In fact, any expression would be better than that cold, emotionless stare.

"When it comes to pizza, I'm pretty basic. Pepperoni's my favorite, but I'll eat just about anything except the extra-veggie kind. I mean, if I wanted a salad, I'd eat a salad."

It's a sad attempt at humor, made even sadder when his expression doesn't change at all.

"We'll get pepperoni then," he says.

The pizza's amazing. The conversation . . . not so much. I try to draw Aaron out and get him to talk about himself or his work, or his family, or anything, but I end up holding the silence off on my own.

By the time we walk back to his car, even my most optimistic inner voice is giving this date a failing grade.

We're about halfway there when I can no longer hide the fact that my leg hurts, and I start to limp.

Aaron notices after a few steps, and stops.

"Are you okay?" he asks. "You're limping."

I wave him off. "I just overdid it hanging bikes and moving boxes and stuff. It's no big deal."

He doesn't say anything more, but he walks extra slow the rest of the way.

We drive back in silence. My mood has been steadily slipping towards the edge of darkness all night, and I'm almost out of the energy it takes to keep it light.

Aaron parks on my side of the street, close to my shop, and we get out.

"Well," I sigh. "I enjoyed the pizza." I'm not sure what else to say.

I wish you didn't hate me.

I wish I'd never hurt you.

I wish you'd let me kiss you.

"Goodnight," I say, and give him a smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes.

I turn and take a few steps, and then he stops me.

"Blake, wait . . . "

I stop and turn back. Aaron's expression is finally something other than blank, though it's not much better. He looks vulnerable, and a little scared, and a little defeated.

"I haven't been fair to you tonight," he says. "I started out determined to have a bad time, and to make sure you had one too. You don't deserve that."

Yeah, I do.

And I should probably have said as much, but instead, I see my chance and seize it. "Hey . . . you wanna watch a movie? You can choose."

I know I sound pathetically hopeful.

"No."

One word, and my hope is crushed.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and then—finally—he smiles. "No," he says. "I picked the restaurant. You can pick the movie."

~♡~

My apartment's not big, but I have a normal-sized sofa and an adequately large TV.

I get us a couple of beers, and we sit with one space between us as I set up the show.

"What genres do you like?" I ask.

"Romance and horror," he answers promptly.

I laugh.

"What?"

"Uh, nothing." Actually, I'd thought he was joking. "How about Chocolat, then? It's kind of a sappy chick-flick, but it's got candy in it. Eye-candy, too, if you like Johnny Depp."

He shrugs. "Anything's fine."

I start the movie, and it seems I've chosen wisely. Somehow, Aaron's never seen it before, and he gives a running commentary on the chocolate and the scenery, the music and the actors. Usually, it would annoy me to have someone talk that much during a film, but it's more than I've heard him say yet, and somehow everything out of his mouth is sweet and funny.

About halfway through he starts to get quieter, and I can tell he's tired.

I take a risk and put my arm around him, pulling him against me.

"Here—you can stretch out like this. I know you're tired."

For a second it seems like he's not having it, but then he relaxes and leans against me, pulling his legs up on the sofa and lying on his side. I hope he can't feel how hard and fast my heart is beating, because it's sort of pathetic how thrilled I am just to have him this close.

The movie rapidly loses my attention.

His black hair is fine and soft, and he smells like sugar and cocoa, and underneath that is his own subtle male scent. I don't know if it's pheromones or just soap and clean skin, but it's driving me crazy.

His long lashes cast fan-like shadows on the smooth curves of his cheekbones, and the soft swell of his lips draw my eyes like a magnet.

Then his eyes flick upwards and he sees me watching him.

"What?" he asks, dark brows raised. His eyes shine like blue topaz in the light from the TV.

I don't know how I dare to ask it, but I do.

"Aaron . . . can I kiss you?"

"I don't know," he says, looking down so his eyes are veiled. He looks back up and a little smile curves his lips. "Can you?"

My breath catches on the hope that's suddenly stuck in my throat. "May I?"

He reaches up and loops an arm around my neck, pulling me down.

His mouth seems to melt like butter against mine; soft lips and a warm wet tongue. I explore him gently. At first, he's passive, letting me have the pleasure of discovery, but then I feel his tongue slide past my lips, and he turns the tables.

Raising himself, he twists to straddle me, so his head is slightly above mine and angled down, and we're pressed together chest to groin.

As he kisses me I slide my hands beneath the hem of his shirt and over his body. He's slim and smaller than me, but not soft. I feel taut muscle beneath his smooth skin, and I can tell it's the strength of deliberate training.

He pulls back, and a strand of saliva connects our mouths. I wipe it from his lips with my thumb and look up at him with breathless adoration. He smiles, and it's beautiful.

"I love your smile," I say. "I wish I saw it more often."

And just like that, I fuck things up.

His smile—rare, beautiful thing—flickers and dies, and I see the blankness creeping in at the corners of his eyes.

"Aaron," I say, brushing the back of my hand against his cheek. "Baby, don't do that. Don't keep it all inside, okay? If you ever want to talk . . . I'll listen."

Abruptly he pushes himself off me and gets up.

"You don't know me, Blake," he says. His voice isn't angry or cold. It's just . . . tired. "You don't know anything about me. And I'm not your baby. I'm sorry. I can't do this right now. Thanks for the movie. Goodnight."

He's gone before I can gather the thoughts he scattered with the touch of his lips and stop him.