Her fingers trace to another scar on my shoulder. "And that?"
"Rock climbing at Stanford. Stupid bet with my roommate."
"You have a lot of scars."
"I do dumb things when I'm bored."
"Like pay off a stranger's debt and fly her to California?"
I pause, soap still in my hands. "That wasn't stupid. That was the smartest thing I've ever done."
She doesn't know what to say to that. Neither do I.
I finish washing her in silence. She lets me, doesn't protest, just watches me with an expression I can't read.
When we're done, I turn off the water and wrap her in a towel. It's huge and soft and probably costs more than most people spend on their entire bathroom. She's swallowed by it, and something in my chest tightens at the sight.
"I should go back to the guest house," she says, but she doesn't move.
"Stay."
"Phoenix—"
"Please. Just for tonight. Stay."
She should say no. I can see it in her eyes, the war she's fighting with herself. Every reason she should walk away.
But she doesn't.
"Okay," she says softly. "Just for tonight."
We both know it's a lie. One night will become two. Two will become more. We're already in too deep to pretend otherwise.
I give her one of my shirts. Soft cotton, worn from years of washing, smells like my laundry detergent and me. She puts it on and it's huge on her, falling to mid-thigh.
I stare.
"What?" she asks, pulling at the hem self-consciously.
"You. In my shirt. In my room." I shake my head. "It's..."
"A problem?"
"No. The opposite of a problem."
We get into bed. She takes one side, I take the other. There's space between us, both of us trying to be respectful, trying to figure out what this is.
Both of us staring at the ceiling.
"This is weird," she says.
"Yeah."
"We just had sex on your desk."
"Yeah."
"And now we're in your bed."
