“Yeah,” I say. Same.
“How long,” she says.
“Two weeks.”
“Jax.” Her thumb stops moving.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“You’re saying it with your hands.”
“My hands have opinions.”
“Believe me,” I say. “I know.”
She laughs. Doesn’t mean to. Warm and real and completely unguarded and I turn toward it before I can stop myself.
“Don’t,” she says immediately.
I face the ceiling.
“I was going to look at your face.”
“Sure you were.”
“I was.”
“The ceiling’s neutral,” she says.
“You’re using my line.”
“It’s a good line.”
“It’s the only thing keeping me functional right now.”
She goes quiet again. Working through it. Finding what needs finding.
That’s the part I’m not prepared for. Not the leggings. Not the sweater. Not even the sheet trying to stage a coup. The fact that the second she stops teasing me and actually means it, the whole room changes.
“When I walked in,” she says. “And you were on the table.”
“Yeah.”
“I lost my train of thought for a second. Maybe two.”
“I noticed.”
“You were supposed to be looking at the ceiling.”
“I was,” I say. “Mostly.”
“We’re both managing,” she says.
“Professionally.”
“The sheet’s doing incredible work.”
