"I never judge people, by the way," I note and try to drink from the mug in my hand. It's stifling hot, as if this man can't handle normal temperatures.
"Good to know." He says, eyes miles away. He sips his coffee, clearly unaffected by the heat. This hot coffee paired with the probably over eighty degrees in this room makes me want to peel off every layer of clothing I put on.
"Tell me, Masen," I start. "What are you doing here?" He stuffs one hand in the pocket of his jeans, fumbling with something. I can't tell what it is.
"I'm here for work — business." He says simply. I wasn't expecting that.
"What's with the whisky?" I try to unveil more information, but he's not giving it up freely. "It was right there on your nightstand," I add.
"I'm a fucking addict. You know that."
I bite my lip. He's not answering any of my questions so far.
"I thought you were five years sober? A sponsor? Mine, no less." I try not to have an edge to my voice, but as much as I've lied in my life — I hate being lied to, and I feel he's hiding something.
"I'm fucking human, little Doe. Mistakes happen." He eyes me, my reaction.
"Mmkay," I mumble, looking at the black liquid in my hands. I see his hand leave his pocket from the corner of my eyes. He's fidgeting, touching his hair, and pushing back the strands that fall over his eyes every time he moves his head. A frown casts shadows in his green eyes and I want to know what's going on in that ridiculously beautiful head of his.