Neither does she.
The kettle's hum grows louder, more insistent. Steam billows from its spout in thicker clouds.
I breathe in the scent of her tea. Peppermint and lavender. It's the same blend she used to drink every night before bed, curled against me with her Kindle while I completed charts. The memory hits so hard I nearly stagger.
She turns off the burner. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap.
The air is different, charged by the sudden silence. Our eyes meet, and something passes between us. Perhaps it’s recognition of the absurdity, the tension.
She laughs softly, and my own chuckle follows. The two sounds meet, breaking the fragile distance we’ve been holding.
"I didn't mean to—" I gesture vaguely at myself,self-conscious.
"It's your hotel room, too." Her voice is carefully neutral, but her eyes betray her.
The silence returns, not quite as sharp but still weighted with things unsaid.
The laughter between us fades, leaving a silence that feels both empty and full. I take a slow sip of water, my throat suddenly desert-dry. My skin is still damp from the shower, but at least now there aren't swollen droplets clinging to my skin.
Lane reaches for the kettle, pouring steaming water over her tea bag. The movement is careful and deliberate. Each gesture is measured as if she’s performing surgery instead of making tea.
The peppermint sharpens the instant the water hits, filling the space. I caught a trace of it in the dry bag, but now it’s everywhere.
Neither of us moves. That’s what strikes me most. For more than a decade, every time we’ve been in the same room, it’s been because of something else, whether it be my schedule colliding with hers, the fights that followed, lawyers sliding papers across polished tables, or Sanders needing us to be civil long enough to share a school event or a doctor’s appointment.
There has always been a buffer, a purpose, a reason to endure each other, for as long as I can remember now. The good moments with just us, those are distant memories.
But not now. Tonight there’s no wedge, no pager buzzing on my hip, no court order keeping us tethered. Just the hush of the suite, the kettle cooling behind her, and the weight of seven years of things neither of us has dared to say.
And underneath it, an ache I can’t name. I haven’t let myself feel this with Lane in years, but it’s here, undeniable.I want to touch her, to close the inches we’ve kept between us for so long.
My skin prickles with awareness. Warmth radiates from where she stands, barely two feet away. Close enough that if I shifted my weight, our arms might brush. The thought sends a shock through me.
She dips her tea bag, eyes fixed on the turbulent amber liquid. But her composure wavers. I notice the slight tremor in her fingers, the way she draws her bottom lip between her teeth, that unconscious tell she's waging a battle, too.
For a moment, I wonder if she’s caught in the same fight, wanting to move closer and terrified of what it would mean.
ELEVEN
Lane
Steam curls from my mug, rising between us like a question I don’t dare ask.
I clutch the ceramic tighter, letting the burn seep into my palms, anything to keep me steady. Woody stands a step away, bare-chested, with defined abs I once knew by heart. My pulse hammers, my tongue suddenly too big for my mouth. God help me, I can’t stop staring.
I should move. I should say something. Anything but stand here, caught between memory and now, while my ex-husband stands inches away in nothing but a towel.
“Goodnight, Woody.” The words rasp out husky, shaky, nothing like the steady tone I aimed for.
I push past him, desperate to escape before we do something we can’t take back. Our shoulders brush, a jolt that shoots straight through me, turning a blip into inevitability.
Woody doesn’t step aside. He only turns his head, tracking me, his eyes locking on mine. For a heartbeat, I don’t know if I have the strength, or even the will, to keep going.
His hair is darker when wet, curling slightly at the temples where threads of silver catch the dim light. Water still glistens along the hard line of his collarbone, trailing down to the defined planes of his chest. My fingers remember the texture of that skin, the warmth beneath.
I forget how to breathe.
The space between us is charged, dangerous in its smallness. If I reached out, I might not let go. The thought sends heat spiraling through me, settling low in my belly.
