I should have known she’d call me out on that.
And I can’t lie to her.
She’s right. And she knows it.
“It’s not,” I admit. The words scrape on the way out.
She reaches out, trailing her fingers lightly along the edge of the bed beside me.
Not touching me. Close enough that I feel it anyway.
My entire body locks down.
Every instinct screams at me to grab her. Pull her closer. Close the distance between us.
But I don’t move. I don’t even dare to breathe.
“So,” she says calmly, like she’s summarizing a business agreement, “to sum up: we’ll be sleeping in the same bed. But we won’t have sex because we shouldn’t. Not because we won’t want to.”
I stare straight ahead. I can’t look at her.
If I look at her, I will lose.
“Yes,” I say.
She lets the silence stretch and I can feel her watching me.
“Fine,” she says eventually. “Have it your way.”
She walks past me toward the bathroom.
I feel the brush of air as she moves by. It smells like her shampoo. Like something soft and dangerous.
“I’m taking a shower,” she adds.
I nod. “Okay.”
I don’t trust myself to say anything else.
The bathroom door closes behind her with a soft click.
I hear the shower turn on.
My brain betrays me immediately.
I picture her under the spray. Her head tipped back. Water running down her neck. Her shoulders. Her body.
I drag a hand down my face.
Get it together.
I stand there for a long moment, staring at nothing, listening to the steady rush of water through the wall like it’s mocking me.
Then I force myself to move.
I take off my shirt. My body is tense, muscles tight with restrained energy. I toss it on the chair without thinking.
I cross to my suitcase and unzip it, unpacking a few things. Mostly just to give myself something to do.
