“Clearly an oversight,” I say. I don’t shift my hand. Neither does she. Then she lets go first.
“Yours,” she says. “Cactus was more chipper than I’m feeling.”
Ten minutes later, we’re curled up on the couch with our tea, lazily watching the flames frolic in thefireplace. The throw blanket we draped over our legs is starting to fall, one lopsided corner creeping down the front of the couch like it’s trying not to be noticed. It bunches between the cushions, half-draped, half-lost. We both notice at the same time, eyes tracking its descent.
“I’ve got it,” I say, leaning forward.
But she’s already moving. We reach for it together, bumping shoulders, and then, somehow, knees. Her arm brushes mine, and before I can adjust, my palm lands gently on her thigh. She startles but doesn’t pull away.
She goes still, just for a second, as if a low-voltage current ran between us and grounded somewhere in her core. It surprises me again how badly I want to lean into the touch instead of raising my hand.
Her voice is softer than before when she finally says, “You’re not so bad at this fake dating thing, Callahan.”
I manage a low reply. “Neither are you.”
She scoots away first, and I pretend it doesn’t feel like the soft slide of a coat being shrugged off, that gentle loss of heat you don’t notice until it’s already gone.
We move through bedtime motions without conversation. I brush my teeth at the tiny sink while Maisie hunts for a spare hair tie in her bag, muttering something about dry shampoo and rushed packing. We trade spaces like we’re ballroom dancing around landmines—avoiding touch, avoiding eye contact, but not completely avoiding the heat between us.
She ducks behind the makeshift blanket wall to change, and I do the same, swapping my jeans for worn sweatpants and a T-shirt that still smells faintly of cedar from the drawer it lived in all winter. I hear the rustle of fabric from the other side of the barrier, and my brain unhelpfullypaints the image of her in flannel PJ pants and a cotton tank top.
She’s braiding her hair when I step out, and I do my best not to stare at the flannel pajamas she’s somehow made look...great. They’re a dove gray, printed with tiny pine trees and rust-colored foxes zigzagging up and down her legs. Not what I imagined earlier— somehow much better. Relaxed, homey, in a very easy-on-the-eyes, beautiful way. Far too easy to picture as an ordinary, perfect night thing.
Maisie catches me looking. “What?” she says, quirking a brow.
I smirk. “The Stitch Sisters would be proud. All that flannel compatibility nonsense might actually be accurate.”
She rolls her eyes, but I catch the corners of her mouth tugging up. “You’re still wearing the pick,” she says, nodding toward my chest.
I glance down and give the leather cord a small tug as if I forgot it was there. “Feels off when it’s not there.”
She tilts her head. “I’m guessing there’s more to that story than you’re telling me.”
I shrug one shoulder, but the air between us stretches taut, like a drawn bowstring, not tense, but loaded with something waiting to be released. Just not tonight.
I say goodnight and truly mean it. Then both of us step forward as if to share a friendly hug, then catch ourselves at the last second and awkwardly shake hands instead. Her fingers are cool and smooth. I don’t realize I’m doing it, but my thumb caresses her hand. Her fingers wiggle lightly, and I let go abruptly. But when I lift my hand to brush my jaw in embarrassment, I notice that her scent clings faintly to my skin, subtle but impossible to ignore. I nod in her direction as I practically nosedive onto my side of the bed.
Night is fully upon us now as we slip under ourseparate corners of the quilt, the stillness thicker than it was before.
The fire’s burned low. The kettle’s cooled. The air between us hangs like steam on glass, fine, almost invisible, but unmistakably present. Something warm trying not to condense into something seen. And underneath all of it, a thought I can’t quite shake: if I close my eyes, I might forget what this is supposed to be and just feel what it actually is.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the fire crackle and Maisie’s soft, even breaths.
The blanket wall holds.
Until it doesn’t.
I kneel and reach up to fix it. So does she.
We collide. Full contact, no time to dip away. My hands land on her waist. She freezes, shoulders rigid, breath pausing, but not in a way that pushes me back. It’s similar to the hush that comes when you’re waiting to see if something’s about to start or stall.
She’s close. And warm. And soft in a way that’s too difficult to joke about.
I clear my throat. “I’ll get the other corner.”
“Yeah,” she says, but her voice is lower than usual.
Sometime in the middle of the night, a draft sneaks through a cracked window and rattles the curtain rod. Fabric shifts, and the one blanket doing most of the border guarding slides off.
