I pull on the loose gray sweats folded on the chair beside the bed. They’re his too. Obviously.
Everything I’ve worn for the last week has been his.
The waistband sits loose on my hips, the legs bunching at my ankles.
Ryan watches the entire process like I’m performing surgery instead of putting on sweatpants.
“You’re ridiculous,” I mutter.
“Probably.”
Then he tilts his head toward the door.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lunch.”
I narrow my eyes.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re definitely lying.”
Ryan shrugs.
“Guess you’ll find out.”
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
He walks beside me down the hallway, his hand hovering just behind my back. Not touching. Just ready.
When we reach the stairs, he pauses.
“You good?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“If you fall—”
“I’m not going to fall.”
He grunts.
But he stays one step behind me anyway.
Just in case.
The closer we get to the main room, the louder it gets.
