I hesitate at the threshold.
My whole body feels exposed in nothing but a towel, even though it’s wrapped tight and I’m covered. My skin prickles anyway, like I can feel him without even seeing him.
Then I walk in.
The room is… so male.
The walls are wood. The bedframe is solid, simple. The bedding is dark, neatly made, corners tucked like he’s eithermilitary or a psychopath. There’s a heavy dresser and a chair in the corner with a flannel draped over it like it was thrown there without thought.
The air smells faintly like cedar and smoke and soap.
My backpack sits by the bed.
My flowers are in water, set in a glass jar on the dresser like they belong there. Like he made space for them without making a big deal out of it.
My throat tightens.
Maverick stands near the foot of the bed, arms crossed like he’s trying to hold himself in place.
His gaze lands on me and it is not a quick check.
It drags.
There’s heat in his eyes like he’s starving and I’m the first real meal he’s seen in years. His throat works once, his jaw flexing like he’s biting back something he doesn’t want to let loose.
My skin tightens under the towel. My pulse stutters.
Then he forces his eyes away, like it costs him something
His gaze moves to my purse.
They pause.
Not long, but long enough.
His jaw tightens a fraction, like he clocks the weight of it, the grip I have on it, the way my knuckles are white around the strap.
He doesn’t say anything.
But I feel it.
He notices.
“Your stuff,” he says, voice rough. “I moved it in here. Figured you’d want it close.”
“Thank you,” I manage.
My voice comes out smaller than I want.
I clear my throat and step farther into the room, because standing in the doorway feels like standing on a ledge.
I set my purse down on the dresser beside the flowers.
The second I do, I feel lighter and more panicked at the same time.
Like I just took off armor and immediately regretted it.
Maverick’s eyes flick to where I put it, then back to my face.
