But my mind keeps drifting.
Back to him.
The way he looked at me earlier.
The way his voice softened when he said he was proud of me.
God, that did something to me.
Something dangerous.
Because for a second?
It felt like we were us again.
Like nothing had broken.
Like nothing had changed.
I rinse off quickly, my pulse picking up again as I think about stepping back out into that room.
Back into his space.
Back into him.
“Just talk,” I whisper to myself. “That’s it. Just talk.”
But even as I say it—I know.
Deep down, I know that’s not what’s going to happen.
Because I remember that look in his eyes.
And I know the one in mine.
And when two people like us—with this much history, this much want, this much unfinished between us—get put in a room together like this?
Yeah.
Talking is never going to be enough.
I turn off the water, grabbing a towel and drying off slowly, my thoughts still racing.
Then I reach for the long T-shirt I packed, pulling it over my head.
It’s soft.
Loose.
Barely covers anything.
A pair of clean panties are next.
I stare at myself in the mirror for a second.
Hair damp.
Skin flushed.
