(Etienne's Point Of View)
He jerked away from my grip. "Really? Because it looked like you were making out with some woman in a bar."
The streetlight caught the sweat at his temple; a thin film that made his jaw look sharper, harder. The air smelled faintly of spilled beer and winter—cold and metallic—and it scraped against my throat when I swallowed.
"She kissed me. I pushed her away."
His laugh was a short, humorless sound. "After how long? Five seconds? Ten?"
A bus sighed somewhere down the avenue, its brakes hissing like a warning. My fingers left a raw circle on my palm where they'd been clutching my jacket. "It doesn't matter—"
"It matters to Isobel." His eyes were cold. "She's upstairs right now, crying herself to sleep because of you. And you're down here doing... that."
