Does she know how easy she is to read? That everything she’s feeling is written right there on her face.
She broadcasts everything. Her shoulders are tight. Her breathing is shallow. Her gaze keeps skidding toward the door, then snapping back to the bed like she’s afraid of what she’ll see if she looks too long.
Shame sits on her like a weight.
At work, she thinks she hides behind politeness. Behind “sir”, apologies, and that smile. She thinks if she stays quiet enough, nobody will notice what she’s carrying.
But this morning, there’s no office desk between us. No role to hide behind. No neat schedule, coffee runs, and email folders.
Just her in this bed, wrapped in a sheet she’s gripping like armor.
She’s naked under that blanket. I know it. I remember every inch of her. The soreness is written into the way she holds herself, the way her stomach tightens when she shifts, the way her thighs press together as if that will keep something in place.
My eyes cut to the blanket, and I feel the sharp instinct to correct her. To remind her of what I told her last night about hiding herself from me. The words are already there, ready on my tongue.
Then I stop.
The agreement is done. The night is done. The transaction is done. She isn’t mine anymore.
And the fact that I feel anything about that—anything that isn’t relief—irritates me more than I want to admit.
There’s a short, unexpected tug in my chest. Something like loss. Something like a door closing.
I shut it down.
I cross to the end of the bed and pick up the robe that got discarded sometime in the aftercare of the night. I hold it out to her.
“Put this on,” I say.
Her fingers tighten on the blanket.
For a second, she looks like she’s going to argue. Like pride will make her refuse just to prove she can. Then she swallows, eyes still averted, and reaches for the robe with one hand while the other keeps the sheet clutched tight.
She moves slowly, stiff. Careful. Like her body is sore enough that every motion costs her something.
I catch myself watching her too closely and force my gaze away.
I turn to the chair where my pants are and pull them on carelessly. I don’t bother to zip or button. We’re alone, and I’m not trying to impress anyone.
Except that’s a lie too, because I’m aware of her behind me. I’m aware of the way she’s freezing the moment I turn my back, like she expects me to do something.
I don’t.
I let her have the space.
A knock sounds on the door, brisk and firm.
I glance over my shoulder.
Erica’s in the robe now, belted tight, arms crossed over herself like she can hold herself together by force. She’s sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the carpet, head down. Blonde hair tangled, face flushed in a way that has nothing to do with heat.
Her eyes flick to me for half a second, then away.
I go to the door.
When I open it, a hotel staffer stands behind a breakfast cart. Early-twenties, red hair pulled back from a cute face with fair skin and a smattering of freckles across a button nose. Her amber eyes are neutral and bored… until they zero in on me and widen as color explodes in her cheeks.
She flicks her gaze past my shoulder, and I see her clock the messy bed behind me… and Erica in a robe. Her surprise shifts into something eager and nosy for a heartbeat. I shift to block her view and draw her eyes back to mine. Her blush deepens, and she drops her eyes to the cart.
