The nickname hits me like a physical thing.
My breath stutters.
No one has called me that in years.
“Benji—”
“It’s late,” he cuts in, not harsh, but firm enough to stop me. “We’ll talk in the morning.”
Morning.
Like this can wait.
Like this isn’t already clawing its way through both of us.
I study him for a second longer, searching for something—anything—that tells me where I stand with him.
But he’s locked down.
Walls up.
Guarded.
Still him.
Always him.
“Okay,” I say quietly.
Because what else is there to say?
I turn and head down the hallway, each step feeling heavier than it should.
The bedroom door is exactly where he said it would be.
Of course it is.
I pause with my hand on the knob, heart pounding in my chest.
Then I push it open.
And step inside.
It’s simple.
Clean.
Masculine.
But there are touches here and there that make my throat tighten—a lamp that looks like something I once pointed out in a store, the layout of the furniture just a little too familiar, like it was built from memory.
From us.
I close the door softly behind me and lean back against it, pressing my eyes shut.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
Because this?
