The honesty of it loosens something in my chest and hits harder than the sex did. At least we’re both confused. At least I’m not drowning alone.
I turn my head to look at him finally. His hair is still damp, falling across his forehead. There are red marks on his shoulders and back from my nails. His expression is unreadable.
“This is complicated,” I say unnecessarily.
His mouth quirks. “Little bit.”
“I’m still leaving tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“And I’m still pissed about the tracker.”
“I know that too.”
I study his face, looking for—what? Regret? Doubt? Some sign that this was a mistake?
But all I see is certainty. Like he knows exactly what this is and isn’t afraid of it.
“How are you so calm?” I ask, genuinely confused.
He reaches up, tucking a strand of damp hair behind my ear. “Because I know where this ends, swan. I’ve always known.”
“Where’s that?”
His eyes hold mine, steady and sure. “With you coming back to me.”
It’s not anif. It’s awhen.
“You can’t know that,” I whisper.
“Yeah.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “I can.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him he’s wrong, that I have a life in New York, that this is just trauma and proximity and we’ll both feel differently in the morning. In a week. A month . . .
But the words stick in my throat.
Because what if he’s right?
What if my body already knows something my brain refuses to admit?
The thought is terrifying.
I pull away from his touch, sitting up and drawing my knees to my chest. The sheet pools around my waist and I feel suddenly, acutely exposed—and not because I’m naked.
“We should talk,” I say, even though I’m not sure I’m ready for whatever conversation is coming. “Properly.”
Bones sits up, face guarded. “OK.”
And that’s when I find the courage to ask him the question whispering in the back of my mind.
“What if I don’t want to go back to how things were?”
Bones goes very still beside me. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” I wrap my arms tight around my drawn-up legs. “I just—what if I want more?”
The words hover between us like smoke.
