One lamp burning low. The bed in the corner, sheets still rumpled from before.
And in the other corner—
A cot.
I stop walking.
It's small. Narrow. The kind of thing you'd give a servant who pissed you off. The mattress is thin enough that I can see the frame through it.
This is his new bed.
The thought lands wrong. Sideways. He's a god. He could sleep anywhere—could probably conjure a second bed out of spite and divine willpower—and instead he's been folding himself onto that sad excuse for furniture so I can have the actual bed.
No. Stop it. It doesn't mean anything. It's practical. He's just being—
Nice. He's being nice to you.
When has anyone ever beenniceto me.
My throat closes. My eyes sting.
Absolutely not. I am not crying over a cot. I am not going to stand here having feelings about sleeping arrangements like some rescued damsel who's never seen basic consideration before.
Even if I haven't. Even if this is the first time in years someone's given up something for my comfort without expecting payment.
I cross to the bed and plop down. My ribs scream.
The room is too quiet. No city noise, no footsteps. Just me and my stupid emotions and the ghost of his hands on my skin.
I should sleep. My body's exhausted. But every time I close my eyes—
His breath on my neck.
I lie back. Stare at the ceiling.
You smell honest.
My face goes hot. All of me goes hot.
This is pathetic. I'm pathetic. I'm lying here like a Victorian heroine, getting the vapors over a man who fed me bread. What's next? Fainting because he looked at me too long?
My thighs press together.
Oh, fuck off. Fuckoff. I'm not doing this.
Except I am doing this. My body has apparently decided that near-death experiences and hand-feeding are foreplay, and now I'm lying in a god's bed with my pulse between my legs like some kind of feral raccoon who's never been touched kindly.
Which. Fair. I haven't been.
That's not an excuse. That's just sad.
The hours pass. Or don't. No windows. No way to tell. The lamp burns lower and I don't sleep.
Every time I drift, the kitchen comes back. His hips between my knees. The groan he made when he pulled away. The way he looked at me after—hungry and horrified at his own hunger.
He stopped.
That's the part that won't let go. He wanted something—I could feel how much he wanted it—and he stopped anyway.
