I groan and flop back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling.
"Why?" I demand of absolutely no one. "Why are you here?"
As if summoned by the accusation, my brain supplies another image: Asher leaning over me yesterday, whispering words in my ear that I'd only ever read in pages of a book.
...take it like a good girl.
I press my face into a pillow.
"Stop," I mumble. "You're ruining everything."
I try one last time.
Deep breath. Focus. Sensation over imagination.
It almost works.
And then - without warning my brain crosses a line.
It's not memory anymore.
It's him over me.
Asher's weight pinning me into the mattress, his mouth on mine, hands warm and sure, like he knows exactly what he's doing - like he knows exactly what I want.
I bolt upright with a gasp.
That's it.
I give up.
I let out a frustrated laugh and shove the book aside, collapsing onto my back like I've just lost a very personal battle.
"So much for control," I mutter.
I stare at the ceiling fan as it spins lazily above me, my heart still racing for absolutely no productive reason. The irony hits me all at once.
I can't finish because of him.
Not because he touched me. Not because he did anything remotely inappropriate.
Just because he exists.
That thought alone is enough to make me laugh again, breathless and a little hysterical.
"This is fine," I tell the ceiling. "Totally fine."
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket up, tucking it under my chin like that might somehow reset my brain. It doesn't.
All I can think about is how calm he looked. How controlled. How easy he made it all seem.
Of course he can leave a room like that.
Of course he doesn't spiral afterward.
I'm just another lesson. Another girl. Another person he's helped before.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to smother the sting that thought brings with it.
