Because this—the ache in my chest when he smiles, the way my whole body relaxes when he walks into a room, the desperate need to close the distance between us—this is real.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
So I lie there in the dark, listening to Kevin breathe on the other side of the wall, and let myself feel it. All of it.
The want. The fear. The terrifying, exhilarating possibility that maybe—just maybe—this fake relationship we've been playing at could become something more.
If I can muster the courage to do so.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting in from the kitchen. For one blissful moment, I forget about last night. About what I did. About the mortifying possibility that Kevin heard me.
Then it all comes flooding back, and I want to burrow under the covers and never come out.
He called you gorgeous, a traitorous voice in my head whispers. He kissed your forehead. Maybe he wants this too.
Or maybe he’s genuinely being nice. Comforting. The way he's been for ten months—steady, patient, careful never to push.
I force myself out of bed and pull on a hoodie over my sleep shorts. My reflection in the mirror looks like someone who spent half the night touching herself while thinking about the man sleeping on her couch.
Fantastic.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and open the bedroom door.
Kevin's standing at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. He's already dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt that does nothing to help my current situation, his hair still damp from a shower.
He turns when he hears me, and for one heart-stopping moment, our eyes meet.
His expression is unreadable. Calm. Controlled.
But there's something in his gaze—something dark and heated and restrained—that makes my breath catch.
Oh God, he heard.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough. Deeper than usual.
"Morning," I manage, my face already heating.
He holds out a mug, and when I take it, our fingers brush. The contact sends electric bolts sprinting up my arm, and I see his jaw tighten in response.
"Sleep okay?" he asks, and there's a slight edge to the question that makes my stomach flip.
"Fine," I lie. "You?"
His mouth tips up at one corner, but it's not quite a smile. "About as well as you, I'd guess."
My face goes nuclear. "Kevin—"
"Coffee's strong this morning," he interrupts smoothly, but his eyes hold mine. "Figured we could both use it."
He absolutely knows, and he's being a gentleman about it, and somehow that makes it so much worse.
"Thanks," I whisper.
We stand there in my tiny kitchen, the air between us thick with everything we're not saying. With the memory of last night. With the tension that's been building between us for days—weeks—months.
Kevin takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.
