"And toast. You need to eat."
There's toast too. Slightly burned, because apparently that's how tactical bananas cook everything. I'm just wearing panties under this oversized sweater, the scratchy fabric a constant reminder of my poor life choices. At least I managed to shower. The glitter that swirled down the drain looked like liquified magic.
I take the aspirin. Eat the toast. The silence between us could suffocate a whale.
"Last night," I begin. He sets down his phone, giving me his full attention. My stomach flips. "What… how much of it actually happened?"
"How much do you remember?"
Fragments assault me: the yacht, dancing, some guy's hand on my waist. Then Nico appearing like an avenging angel in human form. Being thrown over his shoulder like a bag of groceries. A boat. Wind. Yelling. My hand on him. That confession about the refrigerator.
"Fragments. You showed up at the yacht. There was a boat. We… talked."
"Is that what you'd call it?"
"I don't know what I'd call it, that's why I'm asking."
He looks at me fully, and something in his eyes makes my stomach flip again. Not nausea this time. Something worse. Something that has to do with the way he's studying me.
"You were drunk. You grabbed me."
Heat floods my cheeks. "I remember that part."
"You asked if I wanted you."
"I remember that too."
"I told you I did."
My breath catches. So that part was real. The refrigerator confession. The way his voice went rough when he said it. All of it real.
"And then?"
"And then I said not like that. Not when you were drunk."
Of course he did. Even with me grabbing his cock, even confessing he wanted to find out what sounds I make, he still said no. The rejection stings fresh, even though I understand it. Even though it's the right thing.
"And then?"
I watch something shift in his expression. It's subtle. His eyes flicking slightly left, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. He's about to lie to me.
"You fell asleep."
Liar. There's more. Something hovers at the edge of memory like smoke I can't quite grasp. But I can't push without admitting I suspect there's more. Can't ask "did I confess feelings?" without basically confessing them now.
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
It's not okay. We both know it's not okay. But I eat my terrible toast while he cleans his Glock, and we marinate in unbearable tension.
The next hour is agony. We orbit each other like binary stars, pretending to do normal things while hyperaware of every movement. The apartment feels too small, the air too thick. My body is a battlefield. Hangover warring with arousal, nausea competing with want.
He reaches past me for a glass, his chest barely brushing my shoulder. We both freeze. The contact lasts maybe half a second, but my whole body lights up like I've been electrocuted. I can smell him. Gun oil and cinnamon and that underlying warmththat's just him. He steps back quickly, too quickly, and I know he felt it too.
I escape to the couch, curling into the corner while pretending to scroll my phone. But I'm watching him in my peripheral vision. The way his hands move as he reassembles his weapon. Precise. Capable. The same hands that could pin me against that refrigerator he mentioned.
