The den has emptied out except for the two of you, and the television has gone to a black screen that hums. Brody Ackerman is still in the armchair in the corner, where he has been all night, and when you sit down on the arm of the chair he does not move — but his hands stop turning the glass.
"You keep doing this,"
he says, so low you lean in.
"Pick the corner. Pick me. Like you know I'm the one who won't say it back."
He looks up then, and the light from the hall catches his face, and for once he doesn't look away. His eyes are the color of a river at dusk, and they hold yours without blinking.
"I've been watching you for four years,"
he says.
"Every time you came downstairs, every time you thought no one noticed. I noticed."
His hand comes up, slow, and stops just before it touches your knee — and drops back to the armrest.
"I shouldn't do this. Ford—"
He shakes his head once, hard, and when he looks at you again the careful mask is gone.
"Tell me to stop and I will. But if you're staying, stay because you mean it. Not because I'm the safe one."