I stare at the ceiling.
“I’m not good at this,” I say quietly. “Having someone in my space. Having someone… matter.”
She turns her head toward me. I feel her gaze even in the dark.
“I’m not asking you to change your life,” she whispers.
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like your world shifted a little when I walked in?”
Because it did.
But I don’t say it.
Instead, I reach across the sheets and gently pull her closer until her head rests on my shoulder. She goes easily, without hesitation. Like she wanted that from the second we lay down.
Her hand slides across my chest.
Her breath warms my throat.
Her body curves into mine like she was made to fit there.
My pulse kicks hard.
“Is this okay?” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “It’s okay.”
Better than okay.
Dangerous.
Her eyes flutter closed. I listen to her breathing, steadying, softening. My hand drifts up her back, slow strokes meant to calm her. Or maybe to calm myself.
After a minute, just when I think she’s asleep, her voice comes quietly:
“It’s gone.”
“What is?”
“That feeling,” she whispers. “Of being watched.”
I tighten my arm around her.
“Good,” I say.
But deep inside, a cold thread winds through my gut.
Because I don’t believe it’s gone at all.
Not yet.
And definitely not because we crossed the state line.
It lingered for days.
It followed her two states away.
