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We held each other tightly, as he murmured sweet words in my ear about how lovely I was, how good it was, as he dropped little kisses around my neck and face. We stayed like that for awhile, until I shivered slightly.

“It’s chilly. Wait here, I’ll clean us up.”

Tristan disappeared towards the kitchen. I heard a door open and shut. I waited.

A minute passed, which seemed forever. Then the door opened and closed again, and he came back in, smiling, holding a washcloth, walking towards me. He undid the belt, and freed my arms. I shook them out, stiffly.

“Good girl. Stand up now.” And he stretched out his hand to me and helped me to my feet. I had pins and needles. He seemed to know this, and just held on to my hand while I shook out my legs. I looked up at him, and he raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, softly. “Beautiful. You’re doing fine.”

I smiled at him, and he gently cleaned off my face with the warm cloth, before easing it gently across the back of my thighs. It smelled faintly of jasmine and mint.

“Shh. Don’t speak. You don’t need to. You don’t need to do anything. How brilliant is that? No decisions. No guilt. It’s all on me.” His eyes searched mine. “Are you too cold?”

I shook my head. He crooked his head, and took in all of me, appraising what he saw.

“I think I want you close to me right now.” He intertwined his fingers with mine. “Come, let’s get under the covers, so I can hold you.”

I looked up at him, blinking. How could this beautiful man, so hot, so hard, be so sweet and kind the next moment? It was unthinkable, yet here he was. I nodded, and he smiled, a big silly smile, and grabbed my hand, leading me towards the bedroom.

He kissed the frown between my eyebrows. “Interesting, little girl, interesting. There’s something in you that always wants more. But maybe that’s because you’re only just finding out what you really want. Are you happy now?”

My voice came out in a croak. “I can talk?”

He laughed. “Of course.”

I focused my attention on my legs, crushed and tangled up with his, his arm around me, the heavy duvet, and the smooth sheets, his lips, the distant ache of desire that was still there against all my questions, confusions. I couldn’t help smiling. What an idiot I was. “Yes, confused. But happy. Very happy. This feels so nice.”

He smiled back. “It does, doesn’t it? Your body likes me, I think. We’ll work more later on your mind.” And he pulled me tight to him, and sighed.

I closed my eyes. It wasn’t my mind that was in danger. His large hands caressed my back, down to my hip, soothing me. I began drifting off, more tired than I realized from all the tension of the day.

• • •

I woke up, disorientated, cold. I opened my eyes. The room was softly lit, and I was alone under the covers. But I didn’t have to look far to find him. He was sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed, naked except for a pair of running shorts, a large black sketch book in front of him. He was drawing. He saw me waking up and smiled. “Hang on, don’t move.” His hand moved delicately over the page, shading, making marks. “Ok, got it.”

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

“Ah, so many things you don’t know. Yet. Are you hungry? I ordered some food for us.”

“I am, a little. Thank you. That’s really nice of you.”

“Why so formal? Of course I’ll feed us. C’est normal, like the French say. You’ll see.” He closed the sketch book before I got a chance to look. “There’s a robe in the bathroom. Come to the kitchen when you’re ready.” And he got up, still holding the book, and walked off towards the kitchen. I watched him. I couldn’t get enough of seeing him move, nearly naked, the body filling the room with animal grace, like a tiger pacing slowly in his cage. And I wondered what about him made me think of someone trapped, too large for his surroundings.

I got up, went to the bathroom, and untangled my hair. Was I going to be here all night, or was dinner a prelude to my departure? I ran toothpaste over my teeth, and splashed water on my face. I looked softer, I thought. Maybe life didn’t have to be so hard all the time. Maybe.

I tied the robe, and walked out to the kitchen. Tristan was ladling out some thick buckwheat soba noodles into two bowls. “I got us soba noodles. Do you want some tempura shrimp on top, or pork?”

“I’ll have some of the shrimp please.”

“I thought you would.” He looked over his shoulder at me, and flung a quick grin in my direction before returning to his task of balancing the meat on top of the noodles. He brought the bowls over to the table, then returned to the counter top. He pulled open a drawer, and got out two glazed ceramic spoons and some chopsticks, which he brought over, along with a tea pot.

“Green tea all right?”

I nodded. His careful organization was so appealing, I didn’t trust myself to say anything at all, worried that I’d blurt out everything I was thinking. And I wasn’t even sure myself what I was thinking yet. My inner polite self shook me though. I needed to say something.

“This looks fantastic. Really. I love Japanese food.”

He grinned again. “I know it. Japanese food is just amazing, all of it. I really got into it when I was doing the detox thing. You just feel so much better after you eat it than anything else. Also went with the acupuncture. I thought, do the thing entirely, or not at all.” He took a few bites of his noodles, and carried on.

I was finding it hard to eat in front of him, but the food was really good, and he had gone to so much trouble. And he seemed so relaxed. I liked it. I liked this, sitting and eating and talking. Even if it made no sense, considering everything. Or maybe I’d just misunderstood him. I didn’t know.

He drank some tea, and as usual, my eyes followed his long throat as he swallowed. I turned to my food. I really couldn’t look at him too much and eat.

He carried on talking after neatly managing a bite of his noodles. His eyes met mine briefly, then looked into the distance. “It was a really hard time for me. At first I did a whole week. I thought, I’ve cracked it. I can do this. It was almost as if my body was agreeing with me, saying you don’t need the chemicals anymore, making it easy for me. But then I had a meeting with a friend, in a bar, and I had a drink and a smoke, and it all seemed ok, and another one. And after about five drinks, I thought I should stop, but I felt fine. And eventually I went home. But I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten there. And I called a friend, but I didn’t remember any of the conversation, just a few hazy ideas. That’s when I realized I really needed to stop, and that it wasn’t going to be easy. Not at all.”

His face was sad, soft and sad. I wanted tell him it was ok, I’d help. I didn’t know what to say. But I wanted him to keep talking. “What did you do after that?” I ate some more. I wanted to hear him, hear what he wanted to say. I was going to make him happy, make him proud of me. Whatever that meant.

Tristan carried on. “I was shaken, but I thought I could still do it on my own. Then a couple of days later, there was a party, and some more drinks, and god, I just wanted to be able to have a glass of wine, and not care. But I couldn’t. I drank a bottle of wine, ok, I wasn’t doing shots of tequila, or snorting coke, but it wasn’t what I wanted. I was better, but not enough.” He returned to eating, quietly.

I ate more, silently with him, in solidarity. I knew what he meant, maybe not to the same degree, but I’d been there. I was still there.

“I know what it’s like.” He looked at me, almost surprised. “I mean, I understand, I think. The day I realized that so many people in my family had ruined their lives through...” I stopped. I couldn’t believe I was telling him this. Shouldn’t I be perfect for him? No issues? No baggage? “But then I saw myself doing it too. Taking the psychological damage and amplifying it with depressive comedowns and escaping into drinking, coke.” He was fixing me with that look again, and I felt like I was confessing something. “I never was as bad as a lot of people, but I was bad for me, you know? And I didn’t want to look back and say I’d missed out because it was easier to hide away and get wasted, than get out there and feel fear.” He was nodding, so I felt better and carried on. “It’s still hard. It doesn’t fix everything. But working on it is something. A path. You know?”

His face was thoughtful, stern. “And is this part of that? Facing your fears?”

I nearly choked on my soup. I swallowed hard, and looked at him. Why did everything feel like a test, and the wrong answer would send me out the door? I didn’t want to lie, but oh god I wanted him. But I wanted him to want me, whatever that meant, and not faked up me.

“Do you do that a lot? Catch people off guard?”

He shrugged. “It works. But why shouldn’t I say what I see? Is it my fault if people let down their guard and I notice?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Letting down your guard.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Now who’s going on the offense? Are you suggesting I like having the upper hand?”

I laughed, nervously. “You have the advantage, in most things, as you said before. People react to the image of you. But you also said you used to like it. I’m assuming that means you’re a bit tired of playing up to the image.”

He smirked. “Are you interviewing me? Because as you know, I can become monosyllabic in an instant.”

“Yeah, I’m interviewing you for my own private fanzine, called ‘What The Fuck?’”

His eyes grew wider, and darkened.

I felt a wave of terror wash over me, but I wasn’t going to play along with this. “I don’t have a stupid fanzine. I just want to know you.”

“Maybe you aren’t used to having conversations, just interviews.” His tone was cutting.

“Maybe you aren’t either.”

We glared at each other.

He picked up his tea, and drained it, placing the small cup down with unnecessary care. I matched his actions. A waiting game.

He looked at me. And sighed. “You’re a very angry girl, Miss Lily. I wonder sometimes who you’re fighting.” His voice was a long drawl.

“I’m used to fighting. Fighting back. Maybe you aren’t used to people caring.” I was angry. Why did he think he had it all his way?

“Don’t blame people for your own flaws, Lily. I care. I care about many things. And you need to learn to understand that.” He stood up, towering over me and the table.

I stared back at him, some of the fear turning back into rage, and back into fear. What had I done?

He walked around behind me and took my arm, pulling me out of my chair, and turned me so I was facing him. I stood my ground and kept staring back at him. If only the closeness of his naked chest was not affecting me. I couldn’t look at him.

“Oh little girl. I’ve never known anyone push away so hard what they want so bad. Except me. Fascinating.”

My heart was beating, hard. Stupid motherfucker. Arrogant fuck. The words leapt out before I could stop them.

“You’re an arrogant fuck, you know it?”

He smiled. And spoke, very slowly, his voice back to the drawn out vowels and hard consonants. “I think, what works for me, will work for you. Or maybe you don’t want to try.” He pulled me by the hand away from the table, until we were standing an equal distance from the door to the bedroom and from the door to the living room. “Tell me to stop then. This is your choice.” And his dark eyes bore into me as my heart beat faster. “Tell me you don’t want me.”

I shut my eyes. My body was overruling my brain, again, his voice reminding me of before. My skin felt hot. Oh god, why was I so angry? I felt like slapping him. And I raised my arm with the thought, spontaneously.

And before I could think, or take it back, his fingers were curled around my forearm, gripping me with uncanny force, and his eyes were burning into me.

“Oh no little girl. I’m now taking away your choice. Because what you want is for me to take over. And that’s fine. Come.” And he started walking towards the bedroom, his grip tightening on my arm.

I hesitated, and he stopped. “Say no, right now, I won’t hold it against you. But you have five seconds.”

I breathed, my mind whirling. I stared at his hand, circling my arm like it was nothing. Knowing that he’d drop it with one word.

Was that what I wanted? I stepped away, hardly knowing what I was doing. Tristan dropped his hand like it had been burned.

“No.” I couldn’t look at him. “No,” I breathed out again, as I backed out into the living room, tears starting to sting my eyes. I grabbed my clothes and pulled on my skirt. I threw my shirt on, and collected my shoes. I turned around, but he hadn’t followed me. I choked down some air, and pulled open the closet door, and put on my jacket, still barefoot, holding my shoes. I rang the bell for the elevator, and figured out the locks just in time for it to arrive. Then I flung myself into it, pulling the door shut behind me. For once, I didn’t look back.