Page 2 of Glass

"Thank you." He says it like I've done something important. "Thank you. God, I—thank you."

"You're welcome."

I take a half step back. Let him look at me. I'm used to being looked at by alphas twice my size—the way their eyes travel down, confused, recalculating. It's one of my favorite parts of the evening.

"Is there—" He swallows. "Are there, like, rules I should—I read the rules, I read them twice, but—"

"You read the rules, honey. You know the rules."

"Right. Yeah. Right, okay."

"What's your name?"

His mouth opens. Closes. He remembers. "We don't."

"Very good. What can I call you tonight?"

He hadn't thought about this. I watch him try to come up with something. The panic of a six-five alpha trying to pick a fake name at a sex club is genuinely delightful.

"Um. Theodore. I mean—Teddy? People call me Teddy."

Of course they do.

"Teddy," I say, letting the name hang. He flinches when I say it, then blushes at his own reaction, and his scent grows warmer, like a kicked stove, his pupils swelling behind the mask. I take a small step back. If I stay this close I'll lose ten minutes of good conversation to his pheromones, and I'm not done with him yet.

"How old are you, Teddy?"

"Twenty-one." He says it like he's expecting me to tell him to leave. I don't. "Is that—does that matter?"

"Not to me."

His shoulders come down half an inch. Good.

"And you?" he asks.

"Whatever you want."

"Oh." He laughs, nervous. "Oh, okay. Um. I—no, I can't, I don't—I'm bad at this."

"I can see that."

He laughs again, a full laugh this time—startled and grateful—and his shoulders come down from around his ears. People like being seen. Even people standing in a sex club in the worst-fitted mask I've ever seen on a human being.

"Why are you here tonight, Teddy?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it. I wait. This is what I come for: watching someone decide whether to lie about why they're here. I let him sit with it. He fidgets, looks over my shoulder, then back at me. His hands open and close, making fists and releasing them. I add that to the list of things I'll test later.

"I wanted to know," he says, "what it feels like. To—um. Sorry. To not—you know. To not be in charge of it."

"In charge of what?"

"Any of it." He says it quickly, sounding ashamed. "Sorry. That's—I don't know. That probably sounds stupid."

"It doesn't sound stupid."

He exhales, big, grateful. "Okay."

"Have you done anything before?"