"Liar."
I can almost feel him smile. "Go to sleep, Madison."
"You first."
"That's not how it works."
"How does it work?"
"I don't know. I've never done this before."
"Done what? Slept next to someone for three nights straight?"
"Wanted someone to stay."
The words hang in the darkness between us. I go completely still, afraid that if I move, if I breathe too loud, he'll take them back.
"Forget I said that," he mutters.
"No."
"Madison—"
"You want me to stay?"
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
Silence. I can feel him staring at the ceiling, feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
"I don't know what this is," he says finally. "You and me. I don't have a name for it."
"Does it need a name?"
"Usually, yeah. Usually by now I know exactly what something is. Fun. Temporary. A way to pass time." He turns his head, and even in the dim light I can see his eyes searching my face. "This doesn't feel like any of those things."
"What does it feel like?"
He's quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," he says. "That's the problem."
My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. This is the most honest he's been with me. Maybe the most honest he's been with anyone in years. I want to reach for him. Want to closethe distance between us and show him that whatever this is, he's not alone in feeling it.
Instead, I shift closer. Just enough that my shoulder brushes his.
"I don't know either," I whisper. "But I'm not sorry I ended up here."
"No?"
"No."
We lie there in silence. His breathing eventually evens out, slowing into the rhythm of sleep. I stay awake longer, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, trying to make sense of the ache in my chest.
Tomorrow I leave. Tomorrow everything goes back to normal.
I close my eyes and try to convince myself that's what I want. The lights flicker back on sometime after midnight, but neither of us moves. The sudden hum of electricity feels almost intrusive.
