I dig through my bag for clothes, refusing to unpack anything into that disgusting dresser. The thought of my things touching those drawers makes my skin crawl. I find an old T-shirt and cotton pajama pants, change quickly, then sit at the small table and pull out my phone. My hands shake as I scroll throughdelivery apps. I order a large pepperoni pizza, because I need something greasy and filling to get rid of the knot in my stomach.
Exactly ten minutes later, the bathroom door opens. Zeth emerges and sits down across from me. I ignore him and keep scrolling through my phone like he’s not even there.
“Wren, can we talk about–”
“Is this how it’s going to be?” I still don’t look at him. “Stuck with you at all times, day and night? Not a single moment alone?”
“I can give you privacy when you need it,” he says. “But given the situation and the mission, how dangerous this is… It’s better if we stick together.”
“It’s too much for me.”
It dawns on me that I don’t know if I can actually do this. I’ve been on my own for years, living alone and answering to no one, sharing my space with absolutely nobody. I don’t know how to have someone constantly there, constantly present and aware of everything I’m doing, thinking and feeling.
“I understand–” he starts.
“I don’t think you do,” I snap, finally looking at him. “You thrive with a host, so you’ve never really been alone, have you?”
He’s quiet for a moment, then nods.
“You’re right, I haven’t. But I can empathize.”
There’s a knock on the door. I push back from the table and grab my wallet, answer the door and pay the delivery guy. The pizza box is hot in my hands as I carry it back to the table.
Zeth stands up and moves to the bed, sitting on the very edge like he’s afraid to take up too much space. He turns on the TV, keeps the volume low, and pretends to watch whatever’s on. It’s some late-night talk show with canned laughter.
I open the pizza box and eat fast. The anger is still making me jittery, and my jaw feels tight as I chew. I watch him as I eat, sitting there so carefully on the edge of the bed.
He looks like a beaten puppy. His shoulders are hunched, his head slightly bowed, his whole posture screaming that he knows he messed up and he’s waiting for forgiveness he doesn’t think he deserves. It makes something twist in my chest.
Because the truth is, I’m torn. On one hand, I’m furious at him for not listening to me at the club, for putting me in that awkward situation and nearly blowing everything we’d worked for tonight. On the other hand, he was being so protective of me. Almost possessive. The way he reacted when that guy groped me, the fierce anger I felt rolling through him, and the way he wanted to defend me from someone touching me without permission… Damn it.
I have to admit, I kind of liked it.
But I can’t get distracted by these feelings. I can’t let myself think about how it felt to have him care that much, to have someone actually stand up for me like that. I need to stay focused on the mission.
I finish the last slice, close the pizza box, and go to the bathroom to brush my teeth. When I come back out, that nasty edge is still in my voice despite myself.
“You’re sleeping on the floor.”
I grab a pillow and throw it at him. It hits his chest and he catches it automatically.
“This should be fine for you,” I say. “You can mold to the floor, right? Probably don’t need a blanket either.”
He looks shocked for a moment, his black eyes widening slightly. Then his head drops.
“It’s fine. I can sleep on the floor. It’s no trouble.”
I get into bed, turn off the lamp, and pull the duvet up to my chin. The room plunges into darkness. I close my eyes and try to sleep.
It’s no use.
I lie there staring at the ceiling I can barely see, listening to the sound of his breathing. An hour passes, maybe more. The guilt grows heavier with each passing minute, pressing down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
I made him sleep on the floor like a dog. But he’s not a dog, he’s a person. Not human but still deserving of basic dignity and respect. And I just threw a pillow at him and told him to sleep on the ground because I was angry.
His breathing is steady and controlled. I can tell he’s not asleep either, but he’s not moving at all, not making a single sound. He’s just lying there because I told him to. The frustration builds until I can’t take it anymore.
I sit up and turn on the lamp. The light makes me squint as I get out of bed and look down at him.
