"Didn't sleep well."
"Perhaps you should rest today instead of working. You've been pushing yourself quite hard lately."
"Perhaps."
But I won't.
Because Eden will be down soon, and I need to see her face.
Need to know if she regrets what happened.
Need to gauge where we stand after a night of processing.
Need to see if curiosity is already building.
Seven forty-five. Seven fifty. Seven fifty-five.
She's usually down by now, punctual almost to the minute.
Maybe she's not coming.
Maybe she's too embarrassed.
Maybe last night broke something between us that can't be repaired.
Maybe she's lying in that bed hating herself, hating me, hating what she allowed to happen. Maybe?—
The kitchen door opens.
Eden walks in, and I have to force myself not to react visibly.
She looks exhausted.
Dark shadows under her eyes like bruises.
Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail instead of the neat style she usually favors.
She's wearing jeans and a sweater from the closet I had stocked—the cream-colored cashmere that makes her skin look luminous even when she's clearly sleep-deprived.
She didn't sleep any better than I did.
But there's something else too.
Something different that makes my pulse quicken.
She's not as tightly wound as usual.
Her shoulders aren't hunched defensively.
The constant wariness is still there—that's not going away anytime soon—but underneath it, there's something new.
Color.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Just slightly, but enough that I know she's thinking about last night.
Remembering.
