The bed is a queen. Which definitely doesn’t seem like a large enough bed to share with this man.
I’m calculating exactly how much space I can maintain between us—six inches? Eight if I don’t breathe?—when Archie hobbles into the bedroom on his crutches.
He’s in plaid pajamas, his hair still damp from the shower. With his face freshly washed and slightly pink, he looks younger and softer. The kind of soft that makes me want to do something stupid like reach out and brush that one curl off his forehead.
“Bathroom’s free,” he says. “I put your stuff on the left side of the sink. I figured you’re a left-side-of-the-sink person.”
“How would you possibly know that?”
“Because you’re left-handed. Left-handed people like things on the left. It’s not rocket science, Leo.”
I head into the bathroom, mildly unsettled by how much attention Archie pays to things like my side-of-the-sink preferences.
I’m even more unsettled when I see the tube of toothpaste sitting on the left side of the basin. It’s the brand I always use.
I’ve been rationing the remnants of my last tube like it’s the apocalypse, squeezing until it’s practically concave, brushing at lightning speed to conserve every last molecule.
But here’s a new, unopened one sitting on the counter next to my razor, like it was conjured up by the toothpaste gods.
I didn’t mention I was running out to Archie. But he apparently noticed.
Archie, who’s been dealing with a broken ankle and a suspicious godmother, somehow noticed I was out of toothpaste and did something about it.
I brush my teeth and then head back to the bedroom.
Archie’s sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone.
“Why did you get me new toothpaste?” I ask.
He shrugs, not lifting his gaze from his phone. “You were running out.”
“Thank you,” I say, and it comes out more sincere than most of the interactions between Archie and me.
Archie looks up at me then, and something shifts in his expression. There’s something softer beneath the usual mischief.
“It’s just toothpaste,” he says quietly.
We just stare at each other for a few heartbeats.
“I’m not used to having someone take care of me,” I say bluntly. “I’m normally the one who has to take care of everyone else.”
My words hang in the air between us. I don’t know why I said that.
Archie’s quiet for a moment.
“I know what it’s like to have to play a defined role with no room to be someone different,” he says finally.
Fuck. Our gazes are still locked onto each other. But what’s floating between us now isn’t the usual charged tension of attraction, although that’s there too, simmering underneath. This is something deeper.
Then Archie seems to give himself a little shake.
“Anyway, buying you toothpaste was really for my own benefit. If I’m going to be in close proximity to you, I want you to have optimal dental hygiene.” He gives me a charming grin.
This is what Archie does, I’m beginning to realize. Whenever we skate close to any kind of emotional truth, he flits away.
But I’m not letting him off the hook so easily this time.
“What defined role did you have to play?” I ask.
