What I did wrong.
What I owe.
Diesel seems content to exist in silence.
After we finish, he washes the dishes and hands me a towel. Without thinking, I step in beside him, drying each plate he passes me. We fall into an easy rhythm, shoulder to shoulder, hands moving in sync.
Domestic.
Strange.
Warm.
It also feels like a lie.
My chest tightens. I remind myself, hard: I am here to spy. I am here because my life depends on playing a part. I cannot get comfortable.
Diesel points to the bed. “You take the bed,” he says. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
My eyes widen. “I can’t.”
“You’re taking the bed,” he repeats, firmer. “Don’t argue. You need sleep.”
I open my mouth to protest again, but something in his gaze makes me close it. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to prove he’s decent. He’s just stating a fact, like the world contains rules and he intends to follow them.
I pick up my sketchbook from my bag and move toward the bed.
The sheets smell like soap. Clean. Simple. I sit on the edge, heart thudding.
Diesel hands me a T-shirt to sleep in, then turns his back while I change. He doesn’t peek. Doesn’t linger. When I say I’m done, he drops onto the couch and drapes an arm over his face, his shirt pulling tight across his abdomen as he settles.
The fire crackles. Rain begins tapping against the roof.
My mind won’t stop.
I slide under the blanket with my sketchbook tucked close, the way I’ve held secrets my whole life. My fingers itch to draw. I pull out a pencil and open to a blank page.
I keep the blanket pulled up to my chest, a thin shield, leaving just enough space to see. The room is dim, the porch light filtering through the window, the fire giving everything a soft flicker. Diesel is a shape on the couch, broad and still. When he shifts, light catches the hard line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the ink on his arms.
My hand moves before my thoughts can catch up.
I sketch his face, then the way his rugged body looked on that bike. I draw what I can see and what I remember, filling in details the way my brain always does when it’s trying to make sense of a man.
My hand shakes. Lines wobble.
I breathe through it.
Drawing is the only time my mind quiets.
Somewhere in the room, Diesel’s voice rumbles, low. “What are you doing?”
I freeze, pencil hovering.
“Drawing,” I whisper. “It helps me. It just… helps.”
He grunts, like that’s enough explanation. “Make sure you sleep.”
I go back to sketching until my eyes grow heavy.
