
It’s terrifying, but only because she just doesn’t know. Arthur’s a stranger to her — she doesn’t know his last name or where he lives or what his favorite restaurant is. She doesn’t know where he grew up or if he even wants to know her the same way she wants to know him. It’s terrifying, you see.
And maybe the gun is sending the shiver down her spine. Maybe it’s the way his hands grip it and she can imagine them on her hips, the back of her neck, pushing the hair away from her face — they’re lovely hands, with a gentle curve of the bone and the skin smooth and strong. They’re probably calloused. They’ve probably killed a man. She should be scared of him. But she isn’t. She’s just scared of this other feeling, welling up quickly inside of her. And it’s threatening to overflow and consume her and she doesn’t know what will happen when it does. Something amazing, she hopes. Something that surges forward and rescues her. Rescues him. Rescues them both.