“Is there anything else? Anything else you think you’re going to need? Because all you have to do is say the word and I’ll make sure you have it. I wish I could say I was good at being a host, but I’m pretty sure I suck. And as you’ve already discovered for yourself, I have a tendency to be a bit of an asshole so if you see me doing that, again, please speak up.”

Clara listened to this delivery from the safety of Weston’s couch, the place she had chosen as her sort of a home base in a crazy fancy loft that otherwise felt almost too overwhelming for her to deal with at all. She knew that she needed to say something; she knew that she needed to do it not only because it was the polite thing to do, but also for the saving of Weston’s sanity. Ever since they’d arrived back at his loft with the understanding that this would not be a one-night thing this time, he’d been talking a mile a minute. It was almost as if he was afraid to stop talking, as if he had some reason to believe that if he stopped talking the entire world would have fallen down right upon the tops of their heads. Even as he spoke, he paced back and forth in front of her, not looking to her at all, but instead looking at something somewhere above her head, something she didn’t think was really there. Everything about him was crying out for her to say something, to say anything to put his unease—at least a little bit—to rest, but for some reason, she felt like she was just incapable of doing it.

To be fair, there was nothing about this that was easy for Clara, nothing at all. For a girl like her, a girl who had grown up with the constant hum of uncertainty present in every part of her life, having what she had come to think of as normal pulled out from beneath her was almost more than she could stand. She thrived on the little piece of normal she’d carved out for herself, and the idea of losing it made her chest feel so tight she was sure she was going to stop breathing all together any moment now. It was why she had fought the idea of staying with Weston so hard to begin with and why she couldn’t help but be a little bit resentful at having been so neatly outnumbered in her opinion of Weston’s plan. Perhaps it was a bit of that resentment that was driving her silence now, a tiny little mean streak she hadn’t even been aware of inside of her that felt that leaving Weston out in the middle of the proverbial frying pan for a little while longer might not be the worst idea in the world. After all, he’d given very little consideration to what she wanted to do, and although the rational, grateful part of her knew he had only been acting with her best interests at heart, there was a juvenile part of her that wanted to see him squirm.

“Did we get everything you needed from your place?” he continued, the pacing not stopping—but if anything-increasing. “Do we need to go back? Or shit, you could just go get some new things if you need to. Like I said, whatever seems easiest. I know this isn’t where you want to be, and believe me, I get it. Just tell me what it is you want to do and we’ll do it. Speaking of which, do you want a glass of wine or something?”

“Sure.”

His eyes lit up when she said that, and she instantly felt terrible for having given him the silent treatment to begin with. She couldn’t really understand why, but he was apparently genuinely nervous about having her here. It was true that it had been his idea and that he’d pushed hard to have it be the route they took, but now that they were on that route, he didn’t appear to know what to do with it. He was almost manic with the need to make her comfortable, and if that wasn’t a difficult man to stay mad at, she didn’t really know who was.

“Yeah? I mean, you do?”

“Sure,” she gave him a small smile, feeling the iron casing that had formed around her heart in the bar begin to soften a little bit more. “That sounds good.”

“Awesome!” he practically shouted, both his excitement and his volume large enough to startle her into a jump halfway off of her couch cushion. “I mean, good. Great. What kind?”

“What do you mean what kind? I have options?”

“Plenty of options. Here, if you don’t mind, come and take a look. It’ll probably be easier than me reading it all off to you.”

Clara uncurled herself from where she sat, a silly feeling of mournfulness washing over her as she did so. Now that the excitement of the day had worn off some, and she’d gotten a little bit used to the idea that Weston’s place was really where she would be staying for the foreseeable future, she found that she was almost intolerably exhausted. She wanted to curl up into a ball and go to sleep, that was what she wanted to do, except that she wasn’t on her own and in her own apartment. The days of being able to just lounge around in her rattiest pajamas were long gone, and from what she was being told, that would be true until they caught the guy trying to ruin her life. Still, Weston was clearly trying, and although Clara was crankier than she could ever remember being in her life, that didn’t call for her just acting like a total bitch. And so she got up and moved towards him, following him around the kitchen to god only knew where. When she saw where he had taken her, she let out a little gasp of surprise and delight.

“Are you kidding me?! Are you freaking kidding me right now?”

“Um, no? Why, is something wrong?”

“No! This is just...nuts, okay? This is nuts. You’ve got a genuine wine cellar in your house. Again, not something most people have.”

Clara had worked in a couple of different restaurants to pay the bills over the years, and one of those had been an uber-hip wine bar, where the bar top had been made of thick slabs of amethyst. It had been a small place, and she was pretty sure that the wine cellar she was looking at now was the size of both of that place’s cellars put together. The walls were lined with bottle after bottle of wine, and when she followed him inside, she gave an involuntary little shiver. Partially out of excitement and surprise, but also for the more practical fact that the cellar was kept in the low sixties.

“Yeah, I guess I know that. Anyway, you can choose whichever bottle sounds good to you.”

“I don’t think I can. Maybe just a nice white? Would that be okay? I mean, if you chose it?”

“Of course, Clara. I just want you to be comfortable. Even though you don’t want to be here.”

He turned his back on her to look the racks up and down, and Clara had a moment in which she was sure she would run up behind him and wrap her arms around him from behind, wrap her arms around him and tell him how sorry she was for acting like a brat. She wanted to tell him that this was the nicest place she’d ever been in and that she was grateful even though she wasn't acting like it. She wanted to tell him that this was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for her, and there was a good chance that was why she was having such a difficult time with it. She didn’t know how to handle things like this, these over-the-top acts of kindness where people went out of their way to protect her and make her happy. Aside from Elsie and Finnley, whom she did her best to keep at arm’s length most of the time, nobody had ever paid her that much attention and she wasn’t sure how to take it. She wanted to just spill her guts and tell him all of these things, but instead she turned and left the wine cellar. She left him standing there with his back to her and returned to the spot on the soft leather couch she’d designated as hers for as long as she was there. By the time he came back with a bottle of wine that was surely too expensive for her to be drinking it, Clara was halfway to nodding off to sleep. It was only the clatter of Weston with the glasses that woke her all of the way up again so that when he appeared before her with a glass for her and one for himself she was actually awake enough to receive it. Good thing, too. It would have been an awful shame for him to go to all of that trouble only for her to pass out.

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he said sheepishly, sitting in one of the leather club chairs to her right. “I wasn’t completely sure which one you would like. If it turns out this one isn't it, let me know and I’ll pick something different. It’s really no trouble.”

“No,” she answered quickly, “please, don’t worry about it. I’m sure this will be perfect.”

“I hope so. Um, why don’t we make a toast?”

“A toast?” She smiled, honestly surprised to hear the suggestion and not entirely displeased by it at the same time. “Um, sure. Sure, that sounds nice. But do I have to give it?”

“Ha! No, you don’t. That wouldn’t be very hospitable of me, now would it? I just wanted to say something short and sweet. I wanted to toast to you, actually. I know this is not the place where you would choose to be, and certainly not the circumstances under which you would choose to be here, but your resilience is admirable, and frankly, a bit astounding. I don’t know that I’ve ever met a person with those qualities the way that you’ve got them. That, and I’m sorry for not being there for you. It shouldn’t have happened at all, that last attack. I want you to believe me when I say that I won’t allow anything like that to happen again. As long as I’m here, you won’t be hurt like that again. Anyway. Cheers, Clara. It’s kind of nice to have somebody else in the apartment again.”

Clara raised her glass along with Weston in a little air clink and smiled. She smiled, but on the inside, she was struggling to mentally catch up with all of the things Weston was saying. First of all, she had no idea how long it was going to take for her to convince him that her being in the place that she was wasn’t actually his fault, but it made her chest hurt to hear the sincerity in his declaration of self-blame. It was sort of awful that he could be so sure it was his fault and at the same time sort of exhausting. It was funny how often it happened that people who suffered something traumatic or awful wound up trying to make the people around them feel better about it and that was something for which Clara was no kind of exception. She wasn’t the kind of girl to just sit back and watch somebody else suffer, even if that person was suffering over something that had actually happened to her. Secondly, she was struck by the thing he’d said at the very end of his toast. He had spoken that last sentence almost as if it were an afterthought, as if it didn’t really mean anything at all. Although she didn’t think he had necessarily done it on purpose, it was almost as if he’d said it without really wanting to, as if he’d said it in such a way that she wouldn’t notice and therefore wouldn’t ask any questions. The key word to the sentence, the word that kept tripping her up and wouldn’t allow her to drink her glass of wine in peace, was the last one. Again. He’d said it was nice to have somebody else in the apartment again, and if it hadn’t been for the things Frankie had told her, she wouldn’t have had any idea what it was he was talking about. She was surprised now to even hear him make mention of it and wondered just how tired he must have been feeling in order to do so. Truth be told, she wasn’t even sure he realized just what he’d said. She thought part of him might actually be somewhere very far away from her, a place she wasn’t yet willing or able to go. She had to say something, however, and it seemed to her like it would make the most sense to address what was, to her, the massive elephant in the room. She took a deep swallow of her wine, giving a little shiver of pleasure because it really was the most delightful glass of wine, and then cleared her throat in preparation. Weston looked at her sharply when she did that, which almost led her to just keeping her mouth shut instead. Had she thought he was somewhere far away from her? Had she really? The thing was, even if that was the case, he’d snapped back to where he was in no time flat, which served as a reminder to Clara that she didn’t really know this man at all.

“This wine is really lovely, Weston. You have pretty awesome taste.”

“Thanks. It’s sort of a hobby, I guess you might say.”

“It definitely looked like it,” she laughed, taking another sip and trying not to be too nervous to say what she wanted to say, “judging by that cellar, I mean.”

“Why don’t you just ask, Clara?”

“What?” she asked quickly, surprised by how direct he was being despite the fact that she wasn’t exactly subtle about where she was going with the conversation. “What do you mean?”

“I can see that you want to ask me something. I think it might be best if you just asked it. I believe we’re both pretty tired. I know I am, and that means beating around the bush might not be the best of ideas.”

“Okay then. I have to say, Weston, I’m not sure I’ve ever had anyone talk to me quite so bluntly, but okay. I guess you might be right. I’m just curious how exactly you came to be in a place like this? A place so completely over-the-top nice. I know that’s probably an unforgivably rude thing to ask, and I’m sorry, it’s just that it’s clearly not the kind of place a person in the police force could pay for. This is more the kind of thing a movie star could pay for. Yeah, so that’s my question. If you want me to, you can just tell me to mind my own business and I promise I won’t bring it up again.”

As often happened with Clara, being uncomfortable with what she was talking about had caused her to just keep talking, moving her from the realm of asking a question to the land of full-on rambling. Even when she finally managed to force herself to stop talking, she felt the most irresistible compulsion to open her mouth again and keep going. It was only the small smile on his face that kept her from doing so and even then, her hand was gripping her glass so tightly she was sure she would snap it in half if she wasn’t careful. Part of her wanted to recant her entire statement, to tell him that she hadn’t meant it and he didn’t need to answer anything after all, but at the same time they were questions she was dying to know the answer to. In the end, she chose to remain silent and wait for him to speak. After all, she had no doubt that he would tell her to mind her own business if that’s what he wanted to do. He had been the one to tell her to stop apologizing so much, and this would be a pretty good place to start practicing that. As good a place as any, at least, and she wasn’t sure she could ask for much more than that at the moment.

“Yeah,” he finally sighed, not looking angry at least, which was a step in the right direction, “I was wondering when you were going to ask me that.”

“Were you?”

“Sure, I’m not an idiot. I saw the look on your face when we got here last night, and then again at the bar with your friends. The whole millionaire comment wasn’t the brightest thing I could have said if I’d wanted to keep you from asking me this kind of question. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine.”

“You don’t have to answer, Weston. I mean I’m sure you know that, but it seems like something I should say anyhow. I realize it’s a nosey question. It’s just such a hard one not to ask!”

“I’m sure,” Weston laughed easily, easily enough so that Clara was reasonably sure that he wasn’t pissed off or annoyed by her. Not yet, anyway, which meant there was still a chance that he would actually answer her. As if he could read her mind, he let out a deep, tired sigh, took another sip of his glass of wine, and then began to speak.

“I’ve had sort of a strange time, Clara. Sort of a strange time growing up, I mean. It wasn’t like I grew up with tons of money flying around or anything like that. I had just a normal kind of family, the same middle-class family a lot of people have in this country. Until my mom got sick, that is.”

“What was she sick from?” Clara asked almost breathlessly, afraid to ask for fear that the sound of her voice would stop him speaking but at the same time feeling completely helpless to stop herself from saying something. “Sorry, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“Cancer. You know, that dreaded big ‘C.’”

“Jesus. I’m so sorry, Weston, that’s awful. How old were you when it started?”

“You want to know the weirdest part? And this is something nobody alive knows, nobody aside from Frankie at the bar, that is.”

“You don’t have to tell me then, if you don’t want to.”

“No, that’s okay. It’s just...I don’t know when she got sick. I only know when she died.”

“What? But how? How is that possible?”

“Because,” he answered simply, his eyes far away now and his voice sounding much more like that of the boy he had once been instead of the man and police officer he had grown up to become, “nobody told me. They were trying to protect me, I guess, or at least that’s what my dad said after. After it was all over. She’d worked in some factory for years, since before I was born. It was a job she loved, but in the end, it turned out that the job didn’t love her back because whatever shit they had flying around in the air got into her lungs and it made her sick. I was off at school, and they never told me. I didn’t have a clue that anything was wrong until she was already dead. They didn’t want to worry me, dad said, and so they didn’t say a damn word.”

“That’s awful. I’m so, so sorry, Weston. It feels like a bullshit thing to say, and I guess that’s exactly what it is, but what do you say? I mean, what can you say to a story like that?”

“Nothing. Nothing other than what you’re saying, which is very sweet, by the way. So yeah, mom got sick and died—and not long after dad decided that it was more than he was prepared to handle and so he decided to go ahead and follow her to wherever she went. There was a pretty hefty life insurance policy, but that’s not where most of the money came from. That came from the lawsuit after my mom died. Turns out, you aren’t allowed to poison your workers and not pay for it. Also turns out I’m pretty good at investing and so there you go. You get what you see here.”

Clara knew she was staring at Weston, but she honestly wasn’t sure what else she was supposed to do. She had already known from what Frankie had briefly told her that Weston had been through some truly terrible things, but hearing it from the older, well-meaning bar owner and hearing it from the man itself were two different things entirely. She was sort of floored by how open and honest he had been about a subject she was pretty sure very few people would be able to talk about at all, and at the same time overcome by the complete knowledge that she was going to start to cry if she opened her mouth to try and speak. Then there was the matter of the wife and baby. Why was it that he hadn’t told her about them? Was it because they didn’t have to do with the apparent millions he’d managed to amass for himself out of tragedy, or was it because it was something he just couldn’t make himself talk about at all? And if it was the second, what the hell was she doing here? What was she doing here? Because sure, she knew that he had only brought her here to protect her and because he felt responsible for the attack she’d suffered the night before, and sure, she knew that she didn’t mean anything more to him than that. Theoretically, he didn’t mean anything at all to her either, except that looking at him now she wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was because she was so incredibly tired, and maybe it was because he’d just told her something undeniably vulnerable, but when she looked at Weston now, she felt her heart give an involuntary flutter unlike anything she’d ever experienced with a man before. She couldn’t have said for sure what it was, but if she’d had to guess, she would have said it was that butterfly feeling everyone was always talking about, which was just about the last thing she wanted at a time like this. This was not the man for her to fall for. This was not the man for her to fall for, and that was something she was going to have to remember, lest she make a complete and total fool of herself.

“I’m sorry, Weston,” she said again. She said it in spite of the fact that he’d already told her she apologized to much because she had no idea what else she was supposed to say to a story like his. “Honestly, I am. And I shouldn’t have asked. Whether you’ll tell me or not, it was rude of me and I’ll try not to do it again. Sometimes I don’t know when to keep my mouth shut, I guess, but I’ll try not to do it again.”

“Please, Clara,” he said quietly, looking into his glass instead of at her as he spoke. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. I’m glad I told you. It felt good to tell somebody.”

They sipped in silence for a while, just enjoying their glasses of wine together along with a silence only broken by the noise of the city, the noise that was so constant it was difficult to really notice it at all. Finally, when the feeling of fatigue was so strong it felt like her eyelids had been brushed over with liquid concrete rapidly drying, Clara set the glass aside on a fancy metal coffee table that probably cost as much as some people’s cars.

“I hate to say it, but I think I’m going to have to head off to sleep.”

“Of course, I completely understand.”

“Except that I’m not sure where I'm supposed to be sleeping.”

“Oh! Shit, right. I’m sorry. I don’t know where my head is. Guess I’m pretty tired, too. Here, follow me. I’ve actually already put your things in your room. You’ll have your own bathroom and everything, so there’s no need to worry about that. Honestly, you can have just about as much or as little privacy as you like. If you want to pretend like I’m not even here, that’s completely alright. Tomorrow’s one of my days off, but believe me, those are few and far between. I don’t intend to try and shake up your entire life, Clara, not any more than I can help it. I just want you to be safe. I know this is unconventional, and since we’re being honest, we should just go ahead and acknowledge that my captain would probably completely lose his shit if he knew how far over the line I’d gone, but it’s the only thing I can think of to make sure you don’t get hurt again. It might be crazy, I don’t know, it probably is, but it’s the only thing I could think of.”

“Weston?”

“Shit, sorry. I’m talking too much. This is your room, though, so feel free to kick me out.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Oh.”

“I was going to say thank you. That, and maybe you should stop apologizing so much, too.”

He smiled at her, gave a soft little laugh that only made the flutter in her chest increase, and then did something she would think about both in and out of her sleep both that night and many nights to come. He stepped towards her slowly, in a way that could almost be described as deliberately, and then kissed her on her forehead. It was the second time he’d done it, and yet somehow, this time felt very different than the time the night before. She could actually feel the emotion in it; she could feel it like a physical heat coming off of his body. What she didn’t know was why, or what exactly the emotion she was feeling was.

“You know what? You’re alright, kid,” he said softly, still standing so closely to her that she could smell his spicy, woodsy scent. “Now get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

And then, just like that, he was gone. The only proof that he’d ever been there at all and that she wasn’t staying in a swanky boutique hotel was that lingering scent. She wasn’t sure what kind of cologne he wore, but she knew one thing, and that she knew for sure. Whatever it was, it was now her new favorite.