Leaving.

We could text. We could phone. We could make plans. I could eat with him. I could fuck him. We could chat.

But I was not spending the night.

“Maybe some other time,” I told him.

He looked at me, mouth twitching, head slightly shaking, knowing there would be no other time.

“A fuckin’ nut,” he muttered again, not sounding broken up about it and still looking amused.

I liked seeing him amused even if I wished he sounded broken up about me not spending the (whole) night.

Before I could come to terms with those contradictory emotions, he bent in, brushed his mouth to mine, moved back an inch and said, still with mouth twitching, “Seven tonight, babe. Pork chops.”

It was then I realized why he wasn’t broken up and why he was amused.

Because he knew in just fifteen and a half hours, I’d be back.

Okay, maybe I was a nut.

I imagined Nick made superb pork chops.

But I was stuck on cinnamon French toast.

“Perhaps we can have breakfast for dinner,” I suggested.

His body started shaking as his mouth stopped twitching and began smiling. “Got a rule about my French toast. That bein’ you gotta earn it by makin’ me come in the morning.”

I wondered how many women had earned that.

Just as quickly as I wondered that, for peace of mind I stopped wondering.

“Hmm…” I murmured.

His smile got bigger as his laughter became audible.

And his eyes were dancing in the parking lot lights when he whispered, “A fuckin’ nut.”

I liked that. It was a sweet tease, saying he found me amusing which meant a lot to me.

Too much.

So much it hurt when he again moved in, touched his mouth to mine, but this time, when he moved back, he let me go.

“Drive safe home,” he ordered.

I nodded and made myself move immediately to get in my car.

And it hurt again when I watched through my rearview mirror as he did as he always did, jogged right up to his place instead of standing in the parking lot watching me drive away.

Maybe, I told myself, when I came back the night after he watched me drive away, I’d stay.

Maybe.

Then again, I figured he jogged right up to his place because he didn’t want me to see him watching me drive away.

Or, like it would have been if I was in his position, he didn’t allow himself that intimacy but instead, forced himself to turn his back on what we had and jog away.

* * * * *

8:27 Sunday Night

“This is ridiculous,” I declared, eyes to the TV.

“It’s awesome,” Nick replied.

I turned my head to look at him sitting on the couch beside me.

We were meant to eat pork chops in front of the TV instead of where we usually ate, at his bar. This was because there was a program Nick said he wanted to watch.

And we’d done that.

But now our plates were on the coffee table, as were Nick’s bare feet (mine were tucked up under me at my side on the couch), and we were on episode two of Nick’s program.

A program that was ridiculous.

“I can say with relative certainty, Sebring, that if a lunatic had hold of just one, but most especially five nuclear weapons, pretty much every country’s government on this earth with the resources to put a stop to him would expend those resources to put a stop to him. Not just a single man who unfathomably has been expelled from the CIA for being too good at his job and his gay, deaf hacker sidekick who types faster on seven different keyboards without once saying, ‘Crap, missed a key,’ than a transcriptionist with twenty years of experience.”

After I quit speaking I noticed Nick staring at me with an expression on his face that was so beautiful, I had to stop breathing so I could take it in fully.

Then he burst out laughing at the same time his arm shot out and he caught me around the neck. When he had hold of me, without delay he yanked me so I went up and over my legs tucked to my side toward him and slammed into his side. Then he slid his arm down so it was around me, holding me close.

It didn’t need to be said I should have fought this. If I couldn’t fight it then I should have pushed away.

In fact, Nick and I should be fucking so I could be leaving rather than us hanging out watching TV.

But we were watching TV and I wasn’t fighting it.

I was done fighting it.

We had what we had and it was good.

And it kept getting better.

It had only been a couple of weeks but it was clear Nick had his life, I had mine, he didn’t share or pry, I didn’t either. It didn’t feel surface, what we had, but it also didn’t run deep.

What it did feel was safe.

Since he could do this, I was beginning to believe I could too.

So I relaxed into his hold and allowed myself to enjoy the sound, look and feel of his laughter.

When he’d controlled it (slightly) he focused on me.

“Right, babe, what do you watch?”

“Documentaries.”

His brows shot up.

Then he again burst out laughing.

Vociferously.

That time, I stiffened.

“It isn’t that funny,” I declared into his laughter, and even if he kept doing it, I didn’t stop talking. “In fact, it isn’t funny at all. Documentaries are interesting. There are even ones they dramatize, where actors play characters in history. There was a really good one about the men who made America. It was fascinating.”

Still chuckling, Nick dipped his face to me. “Olivia, I can guaran-damn-tee it was not as fascinating as an ex-special forces, ex-CIA badass and his gay, deaf hacker sidekick chasing after a lunatic with five nuclear warheads.”