“I’m fine.”
He nodded and headed for the stairs, pausing at the bottom. For a second, I thought he might say something else. Might acknowledge the tension between us.
But he just said, “I’ll grab your laundry.”
“Thanks.”
His footsteps retreated up the stairs.
And I was alone again.
The shame hit then, washing over me in waves.
This was my fault. I’d corrupted our friendship with my inability to keep my feelings hidden. Had made him uncomfortable in his own temporary home. Had put him in a position where he had to pretend nothing had happened just to make living here bearable.
The guilt my mother had instilled in me rose, familiar and suffocating. This was why wanting men was wrong. Not because of some abstract moral code, but because of this—because wanting led to hurt, to broken friendships, to shame that felt like drowning.
I should never have let myself feel this way about Étienne. Should have kept the walls up, kept the cautious suppression I’d maintained for seventeen years.
But I’d let him in. Let him take care of me, let him see me vulnerable, let myself imagine—just for a moment—that maybe I could have this.
And now I was paying the price.
I had three choices. Three possible paths forward.
One. Pretend it never happened. Follow Étienne’s lead, never mention it again and hope that eventually things would go back to the way they’d been. Hope that we could rebuild the easy friendship we’d lost.
Two. Acknowledge it. Bring it up again, force a conversation about what had almost happened, risk losing him entirely when he confirmed what I already knew—that it had meant nothing, that he’d just gotten caught up in the moment, that he could never feel that way about me.
Three. Ask him to leave. Ask him to make other arrangements. Tell him I could manage on my own. Protect us both by creating distance before things got worse.
I lay there on the sectional, turning over each option, hating all of them.
Pretending felt like cowardice. But acknowledging it felt like self-destruction. And asking him to leave felt like giving up the only time in my life I’d ever felt truly seen. Even the awkwardness, the longing, the shame—all of it was better than not having him in my life at all.
I didn’t know which scared me more—the risk of losing him by speaking up, or the certainty of losing myself by staying silent.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again. His hands on mine, pulling me up. The heat of his body close to mine. The way his eyes had darkened when he’d looked at my mouth.
The way he’d leaned in, just slightly, before catching himself.
That moment played on a loop in my mind, tormenting me. Because for just a second—just one brief, impossible second—I’d thought maybe he wanted it too.
But he’d pulled away. And today he’d dismissed it as nothing. I was left here with this want that had nowhere to go, these feelings that would never be returned.
Then it hit me. He was going to get my laundry. In my room. Had I left anything out that would give me away? He had no reason to look under the sink or look under my pillow. My heart raced, but there was nothing I could do.
I stared at the ceiling and made up my mind.
As long as he didn’t find my stash, I’d choose option one. I’d pretend it never happened. I’d bury my feelings deeper than before and hope they suffocated there.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Étienne
I closed my bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.
No big deal.
