The shower was off and her room had gone quiet. I could hear the faintest sounds from inside—drawers shifting, the soft drag of feet on the floor. My brain supplied an image I had nobusiness entertaining: Clara wrapped in nothing but a towel, cheeks pink from hot water, hair damp and curling at the ends, lips still wet and waiting.
Heat punched low in my gut, sharp enough to tighten my grip on the jamb as I stopped in front of her door.
This was a bad idea. All of it. I was about to knock on the door of my best friend’s little sister, the woman living in my house, the woman I had turned down three minutes ago while my entire body screamed yes.
I had no speech prepared, no neat, grown-up explanation. Just the bone-deep knowledge that letting her go to sleep believing she’d embarrassed herself alone was not an option I could live with.
My hand lifted and my knuckles met wood in two hard knocks, the sound echoing down the narrow hallway.
“Clara,” I said, voice rough, closer to a growl than anything reasonable.
My fist settled against the door, every nerve strung tight.
“Clara, open the door.”
