My cheeks flushed and I tilted my face forward and stared at my shoes, conscious of the fact that there was nowhere else to look. Unless it was him. And he made me all flustered.
From the corner of my eye, I could see his reflection in the steel, the neat outline of his partial profile that disappeared under the fabric, hinting at the straight nose.
Finally, the doors whispered open.
We stepped into a corridor carpeted thick enough to hide a body in. The doors were old wood, heavy, each one with a small, ornate plaque in fake gold. Our suite was at the end.
Inside, it was too warm, like they'd left the thermostat high for a guest who wanted to pretend it was still winter.
I took off my puffer and walked through the space, noting the small kitchenette with the coffeemaker and a mini-fridge, the bathroom, and the bedroom behind the door. The air was spiced with lavender from a diffuser near the bed. There was a king-sized frame, crisp white sheets, so perfect I felt ashamed to even sit on them.
Seven stepped into the bedroom and dropped my duffel on the floor, near the closet, then exited.
I spun around and looked into the living room area. Then shifted my gaze to the bedroom doorknob. There was no lock. My stomach twisted into a bundle of nerves as I watched him remove his coat, the cap, and his leather jacket. I wondered how many more things he'd discard. But he stopped there.
I hadn't really spent a night with a man in a shared space in over three years. Yes, that one time he'd shown up in my place, bleeding, technically counted. But he'd been injured then.
He wasn't anymore.
In the middle of the room stood a charcoal velvet sofa with two beige pillows lined up like parade soldiers. A low coffee table, a minibar in the corner stocked for the end of the world. At the window, cream silk curtains framed a view of the city that looked airbrushed—tower lights, the whir of cars on busy streets, the glint of something blue from a massive sign blocks away.
I stood just inside the threshold, feeling my own pulse in my wrists. Iwatched Seven move through the space, his eyes scanning every corner, every surface, every possible hiding place for a camera or a microphone. He didn't say anything, just did his job, and then—when satisfied—he kicked off his boots and set them by the door.
I walked over, lingered in my spot, worrying my fingers.
The carpet muffled all sound. The suite was too perfect and I was too imperfect for it.
"Is this where we're going to stay for the time being?" I asked gingerly, trying to ignore my uneven heartbeat.
"It's just for tonight."
"And then?"
"There is a safer place, but it's further into the city. It'll be easier to go back to your mother's place from here. Plus, it can throw off whomever is following us."
"Okay."
Seven strode to the minibar, took out two bottles of water, and handed me one. "I'll sleep here," he said, flopping onto the couch. "You take the bed."
"Okay," I said, more quietly than I meant to, fiddling with the plastic cap.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
I shook my head. "Just tired."
"If you are hungry, I'll get us something to eat."
"No, it's fine. Honestly, I feel like I might just vomit. I'm a bit on edge."
I drifted over to the window and gazed outside. The city was buzzing with nightlife. Suddenly, a wave of anger washed over me. For the past three years, I should have been out there enjoying the things young women in their twenties do. Instead, I was stuck in a relentless cycle of self-loathing and PTSD. I was growing weary of it all. I felt like I was at my breaking point.
"It's a shame we can't go to karaoke," I murmured, turning to face Seven on the couch.
His water bottle was untouched. He couldn't drink it with me in the room. It meant he'd have to bare his face. It was time for me to get out of here and hide in the bedroom, but I couldn't bring myself to do it.
"You should get some rest," he said quietly.
I looked at him.
