She looks ready to fight me, but it seems her urge to relieve herself is stronger and she stomps back into the bathroom, cursing me out even while she does her business.
I lean against the wall, watching her shadow move across the tiled floor rather than her, and when she’s finished, her anger has further ignited with embarrassment.
“You’re fucked up,” Aerin mutters as she stalks past me to the kitchen.
I don’t reply.
Once inside, she busies herself making a cup of noodles from the small box under the sink.
I remain in the doorway, watching her while keeping my eye on everything else around me.
When she’s sleeping, it’s easier because I know where she is and only have to worry about myself.
When it’s me, it’s different.
I’ve been over this house from top to bottom and secured every window and door.
Loose floorboards were removed and inspected, lights and electronics were all unplugged, pipes were examined, floor was ripped up in the hallway, and the locks on the door were triple checked.
It doesn’t stop my back from twitching at every sound, or how even the subtle shift of my eyelashes when I blink sends my attention darting to every corner seeking out a threat.
Aerin’s not the cause.
She’s oblivious.
It’s just me.
Spending almost two decades of your life permanently on the line in a war zone leaves its mark.
“Where did you sleep?” Aerin asks suddenly, slurping up a mouthful of noodles while leaning against the kitchen counter. “I didn’t see another bed.”
“I didn’t sleep.”
“At all?” Her brows lift. “Damn, no wonder you’re so twitchy.”
I glance at her. “Twitchy?”
“Yup.” She refuses to elaborate and I refuse to ask.
“How’s your head?”
“Fine,” she replies. “Look, don’t pretend you care. That makes everything else really fucking weird.”
“Everything else?” My thoughts immediately turn back to last night, and my heart gives an unexpected lurch. Is she finally about to mention it?
“Yeah,” Aerin snaps as if her point is obvious. “You watched me pee like a creep, you won’t stop staring at me, and you’ve literally followed me around even though we’re in this tiny, three-room apartment. Literally where do you think I’m going to run off to?”
“A warehouse,” I reply immediately.
Her eyes narrow, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “Whatever. I’m going to sleep.” She sets her noodle cup down onthe counter and stomps past me but pauses before she’s all the way past. “Is that okay with you?”
“Be my guest.”
She rolls her eyes and heads through, crawling under the blanket.
Her noodles are only half-eaten.
Is this a loss of appetite or an act of defiance?
