The puppy ignores him, because of course he does.
Maverick’s shoulders rise and fall once, controlled.
“Nugget,” he says again, and this time the command in it makes even my bones listen. “Out.”
Nugget pauses, tail still wagging, then trots out of the bedroom like nothing happened.
Like he didn’t just ruin my life.
I stand there, clutching the towel to my body, hair dripping down my neck, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.
I want to disappear.
I want to evaporate.
I want to crawl under the bed and live there forever.
But under the humiliation, something else flickers.
Shock.
Because Maverick’s reaction was not disgust.
It was not pity.
He looked like he wanted me.
Like my curves weren’t something to insult.
Like they were something he had to physically turn away from before his control snapped.
The thought makes my stomach swoop in a way that is deeply inconvenient.
My cheeks burn hotter.
Maverick doesn’t turn back around. He stays facing the wall like it’s a safe place.
His voice is rougher when he speaks. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
I swallow. Hard.
“I…” I try again, then stop, because my mouth is useless.
He exhales slowly, like he’s forcing air through his own body. “Get dressed,” he says, still not looking at me. “Come out when you’re ready. I’ll make dinner.”
Dinner.
Of course he makes it normal.
Of course he hands me a rope back from the edge.
I clutch the towel tighter. “Okay.”
He nods once, sharp, then steps out of the room without looking at me, like he’s afraid one glance will ruin him.
I stand there alone in his bedroom, the bed made for me, my backpack waiting, my flowers in water like they’ve always belonged here.
My pulse is still sprinting.
