The image of her stretching in that bed is seared into my brain, but at least the immediate crisis has been... deflated.
I wash quickly, mechanically, trying not to think about the fact that she uses this same shower.
That her body was under this same spray just yesterday.
That if I turned around, I'd probably see her shampoo bottle and her soap and all the intimate little details of her life.
I don't turn around.
When I'm done, I wrap a towel around my waist and crack the door to let the steam out.
The exhaust fan in here doesn't work—another casualty of the unfinished construction—so the mirror is completely fogged and the air is thick with humidity.
"Bathroom's all yours," I call out, stepping into the hallway.
"Thanks."
I hear her moving around in the bedroom, the rustle of fabric, the pad of bare feet.
I should go to my room.
Get dressed. Put some distance between us before I do something I can't take back.
Instead, I find myself lingering.
Waiting.
For what, I don't know.
I head to my room to get dressed, pulling on jeans and a t-shirt, trying to focus on the day ahead.
Security check of the perimeter.
Maybe a conversation with Runes about those gaps in coverage I noticed.
Normal things. Professional things.
Things that don't involve thinking about Dalla's body pressed against mine.
I'm reaching for my boots when I hear the bathroom door open.
And then I hear it click—not closed, but barely ajar.
The exhaust fan still isn’t working, the steam still needing somewhere to go.
Ishouldn'tlook.
I absolutely should not look.
But I look.
Through the crack in the door, I can see the mirror.
And in the mirror's reflection, I can seeher.
She's facing away from me, reaching for something on the shelf. The towel is wrapped around her body, but just barely—tucked above her breasts, ending high on her thighs.
Water droplets trail down her skin, catching the light as they slide over the curve of her shoulder, down the line of her spine, disappearing into the small of her back.
