You.The way I feel when I look at you.The way this apartment feels like a home now, and I'm terrified of what that means.
I stepped closer without meaning to. He was still facing the sink, shoulders tense, water dripping from his hands.
"Turn around."
He did. And suddenly we were too close. Close enough that I could see the pulse in his throat. Close enough to smell whatever shampoo he'd started using—mine, I realized. He was using my shampoo.
"I'm not mad about the candles," I said. "I'm mad at myself."
"For what?"
"For wanting—" I stopped. The words stuck in my throat.
His eyes searched my face. Pale green in the dim light, too perceptive, seeing things I wasn't ready to show.
"Wanting what?" His voice was barely a whisper.
The air between us felt electric. I could feel the heat of his body, inches away. Could see the slight parting of his lips, his breath shallow.
I stepped back. Put distance between us. Safe, necessary distance.
"The candles can stay." My voice was rough. "I'm sorry I snapped."
Something flickered in his expression. Disappointment, maybe. Or relief. I couldn't tell.
"Okay," he said softly.
He went back to the dishes. I returned to the table and finished my dinner alone, watching the candles flicker in the dim light. My hands weren't quite steady.
We didn't talk about it again that night. But when I went to sleep on the couch, I could still feel the ghost of his proximity. The almost-touch that hadn't happened.
Something between us had shifted. Irreversibly.
I didn't know yet if that was good or bad.
Chapter9
Tobias
The storm rolled in without warning.
I'd been watching it build all afternoon: dark clouds massing over the valley, purple-gray and heavy with rain. The wind picked up around four, rattling the windows and making the plant on the sill shiver. By evening, the first drops hit the glass like thrown pebbles.
Vance was at the hotel. An event, he'd said. Some corporate thing that required extra security. He wouldn't be back until late.
I'd nodded and smiled and pretended the thought of being alone all evening didn't bother me.
It bothered me.
Not because I was afraid of storms. I'd never feared them. As a child, I'd loved their drama and wildness, the way the world seemed to stop and pay attention.
But the silence pressed in when Vance wasn't here. The apartment felt emptier without him. Incomplete. Like a sentence missing its final word.
I tried to read but couldn't focus. The words blurred together, replaced by the drumming of rain and the occasional crack of thunder. I tried to watch TV but couldn't concentrate; the images flickered past without registering.
At 8:47 PM, the lights went out.
The darkness was total.
