I threw a pillow at his head. “Get your ass in the shower before I smother you with this thing.”
He caught the pillow, laughing, and sauntered toward the bathroom. “I might need a cold one after the whole baggy t-shirt, stained sweats combo.”
I rolled my eyes and grabbed one of the vodka bottles from the minibar. It burned going down, a welcome distraction. The sheets were cool when I slid beneath them, all cotton and static and the faint smell of bleach.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling, telling myself I was relaxed. Totally fine. Not at all hyperaware of the water turning on in the bathroom.
Then came his voice.
Singing. Off-key, enthusiastic, absolutely unashamed.
I bit back a laugh, covering my face with both hands. Of course he sang in the shower. Loudly. The sound filled the quiet space betweenmy racing heart and the drone of the air conditioner.
When the water eventually cut off, the silence rushed back, thick and promising. I turned on my side, arranging the blanket like a barricade. A minute later, the door opened.
Hunter stepped out, steam curling behind him, towel slung low on his hips. He was still dripping, and my brain short-circuited at the sight. Water clung to him, catching in the grooves of muscle as it trailed down his chest and over his stomach. His skin looked darker when wet, the lines of his abs standing out in sharp relief. A drop rolled from his collarbone, teasing me, before slipping past the faint scar that cut diagonally across his ribs. Another slid down his side over his ribs, licked the V-shaped indent at his hips, then disappeared into the edge of the towel. His hair was soaked through, pushed back messily, and his shoulders—God, those shoulders—carried that easy, quiet strength I’d come to know so well.
“Forgot my frumpy jammies,” he said, passing the bed.
I forgot how to breathe, so had nothing left in my lungs to reply to his stupid joke. He rifled through his bag, came up with a victorious wave of something and then ducked back into the bathroom to change, leaving wet footprints across the carpet.
I exhaled hard, muttering under my breath. “Calm the hell down.”
The bed dipped a few minutes later as he slid in on his side, quiet except for the rustle of sheets. The lamp stayed on, the pillow barrier exactly where I’d left it.
We lay there, still and silent, the air humming with everything unspoken.
I fumbled with the layers of the oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, twisting onto my side, back, other side… trying to find a position that didn’t make me feel like I was trapped in a burlap sack. The bed felt too small, the sheets stiff against my skin. I scooted a fraction away from Hunter, just a hair’s width, trying to create invisible distance.
“Quit fidgeting,” he muttered without looking at me, almost exasperated. “I can feel every move you make. Can’t sleep.”
“I—I’m not used to sleeping with… so many layers,” I said, stiff, words sticking in my throat.
He patted the pillow between us, the gesture simple but grounding. “You’re safe. Go ahead and undress. Might as well join me in Underwear Land.”
I considered it. Really considered it. Then, one by one, I kicked my legs out of my sweatpants under the covers, letting the loose cotton slide down. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Immediate relief, skin finally able to breathe.
“Now sleep,” Hunter murmured, voice rough with tiredness.
I stretched my legs, and the tip of my foot brushed against his calf. He flinched slightly, and I jerked mine back.
“Sorry,” I whispered, cheeks warming.
We repeated the ritual, minor touches and reflexive withdrawals, silent acknowledgments of the heat in the room. Warmth from the shower still clinging to our skin, the faint scent of soap. All of it mixed with this ridiculous awareness that we were too close, too exposed, and yet… not exposed enough.
At one point, I shifted again, trying to angle myself without making direct contact, but Hunter groaned and rolled onto his side toward me, elbow brushing mine. “Pillow’s in the way,” he said, frustration rising. “The bed’s too small. It’s just making this worse.”
Before I could protest, he ripped the dividing pillow from between us and tossed it across the room. The motion left us suddenly face to face, bodies pressed beneath the sheets, heat pooling in the narrow space.
The air between us thickened with every unspoken word, every stolen glance from previous weeks. The hotel parking lot, the ribbon-cutting, the bus rides, the press junkets. All those moments where maybe something could have happened, but didn’t.
Hunter’s hand rose slowly, brushing the back of his fingers along my cheek. The warmth of him hit me like a bolt of lightning. Hisbreath was uneven, close enough that I could feel it graze my lips. His gaze held mine, raw and unflinching, pouring everything unspoken into that one look.
A slow, insistent thrum of awareness radiated through me, impossible to ignore. The magnetic pull of him, the exhaustion, the heat… it screamed at me to cross the line. I leaned forward just slightly, instinct betraying logic, until my brain slammed the brakes.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head. “This is a bad idea.”
He froze, disappointment shadowing his features. “As you wish,” he murmured, sliding back just enough to create a miniscule space.
