The air felt charged now, like it had outside her parents’ house earlier. That same awareness. That same pull.
Finally, she opened her door. “We should go inside.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, forcing myself to move.
Inside the apartment, things felt different too. Closer. Smaller.
Roxie kicked off her shoes and leaned back against the door, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath all day.
“I’m exhausted,” she admitted.
“Emotionally or physically?” I asked.
She smiled faintly. “Both.”
I nodded. “You did great today.”
She scoffed softly. “I almost cried on the car ride home.”
“And?” I said. “That seems like a reasonable response to emotional warfare.”
That earned me a real laugh, soft but genuine, and something in my chest loosened.
She pushed away from the door, lingering like she wasn’t quite ready to retreat to the bedroom. “Do you ever just … not want to be alone after a day like today?”
“What do you mean?” I was pretty sure I knew what she was asking, but I also didn’t know if I was hearing her right.
“Like”—she gestured vaguely—“what if we didn’t immediately disappear into separate corners of the apartment?”
The implication hung there.
I hesitated, not because I didn’t want to, but because weneverdid this. We coexisted well. Shared space. Shared a bed, even. But we’d never chosen to spend time together without a reason.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “We can hang out.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “We can?”
“We can,” I repeated, surprising myself with how sure I sounded.
We settled on opposite ends of the couch, not touching, but with how small it was we were pretty close. The TV glowed quietly in front of us as she scrolled through options.
“I usually watch trashy competition shows after seeing my parents,” she said. “Something mindless.”
“Deal,” I said. “As long as there’s no cooking involved. That feels aggressive.”
She laughed again and hit play.
We watched in comfortable silence for a few minutes. At some point, she shifted, tucking her feet under her, her shoulder brushing mine. Not accidental. Not exactly deliberate either.
But I didn’t move away.
The contact felt easy. Like something that had always been meant to happen and had just been waiting for us to stop overthinking it.
I glanced at her from the corner of my eye. Her attention was on the screen, expression calmer now, the tension slowly draining from her posture.
And for the first time since this whole arrangement had started, it hit me clearly:
This wasn’t about pretending anymore.
