That backward hat.
My body shivers, my fingers digging into the counter.
I can’t do that. A few days after Caleb moved in, I had a weak moment and touched myself to thoughts of him. It was a grave error. One I cannot afford to repeat.
I breathe deeply through my nose, out through my mouth, trying to center myself.
It barely works—a fickle attempt at control.
When I finally open my eyes, I see my face in the mirror, lookingback at me disapprovingly. That I even thought of doing that, that I was so close to losing control again. I let out a small huff and pull my hands from the counter, doing the button of my pants back up.
Then I stand by the bathroom door, my hand on the knob. With a long exhale, I open it slowly.
He’s not here. I can tell the minute I step out. He left and didn’t come back.Thank god for that, I think as I walk to the kitchen and grab myself a bottle of water. My phone pings on the coffee table, and I stare at it.
I don’t even want to look at it in case it’s him.
Or her.
I need to answer it, to take care of it. But fuck me, I can’t do it.
Not right now.
I run a hand through my hair and glance at the kitchen. Caleb doesn’t leave it terribly messy, but it could be cleaner.
So I pull out the supplies and get to work.
Nothing makes me feel better than scrubbing every inch of my place until it shines.
I hear a grunt and a curse, the sounds waking me from my dream. I lurch up, my body in a slight panic until I realize that I’m not in my childhood home. That it’s not my father coming home after a bad day at work. No, I’m in my apartment, and the noise I hear is from Caleb. My roommate.
The one who wanted me to go to trivia night.
And I turned him down.
My eyes flick to the time and realize how late it is. He was out for a while, probably flirting and kissing girls.
The thought makes my lungs feel too tight.
Another curse emanates through the wall, and I realize something isn’t entirely right. My feet hit the ground as I push myself upright, and another crash has me moving faster.
What the fuck did he get himself into? And why am I rushingtoward him like a mother hen? I don’t need to be pampering him, taking care of him.
I can barely take care of myself.
And I really need to keep my distance.
But still, I leave the bedroom in a rush and step into the small living room. That’s when I see him sitting on the floor, half-naked, his shirt off, his pants hanging off his right ankle.
“Hey there,” he slurs, and my fists tighten, something like disappointment moving through me. He’s been drinking. Of course he has. I can smell it on him.
The scent of it makes me recoil slightly, something ugly roiling in my stomach.
He sighs when I don’t answer and stares sullenly at the pants stuck on his ankle. Like he’s disappointed they’re still there, like he can’t believe they won’t just leave him alone. My gaze flicks up to his, and he sighs loudly again.
Does he want me to help him? What the fuck does he want from me?
“What are you doing?” I finally manage to ask.
