He says no in a way that makes me feel dirty for asking.
I know he’s lying, can see the telltale bulge, aware of what it means.
I’ve got one, too, tucked away, available with the flick of a well-practiced wrist.
He’s moving away but I keep him in my sights, steaming hot and setting my neck hair on edge.
I’m conflicted with my instincts. Leave, stay close, or sound an alarm and possibly look like an asshole.
Maybe it’s just this heat. Or the cool metal barrel snug within my waistband. Or something else I just don’t want to admit.