“Aspen.”
The warning in his voice only makes me smile.
“Emmett,” I repeat, in the same tired tone. “It’s just a ride—Altas won’t mind, just I like I don’t mind you using my shower.” When he only frowns, I start moving past him, patting his chest and adding, “No one’s asking you to marry them and plant your roots here.”
His silence follows me halfway down the hall.
I stop in the doorway to my bedroom and look back one last time.
“I’m texting Atlas. If you get hurt again, you’ll be back at square one.”
Emmett’s lips flatten into a line, like he’s holding back an argument.
Good.
I don’t give him time to find one, ducking into the safety of my room and grabbing the clothes and toiletries I need before my attention snags on my unmade bed and yesterday’s workout clothes hanging half out of the hamper.
What seemed like good enough yesterday feels like a hot mess today.
Jesus.
I make a frantic lap through the room, throwing my sheets over the bed and shoving things into the hamper properly. When I think I’ve got it nearly presentable, I remember the toy I left charging on the bathroom counter.
Faster than I’ve ever moved, I’m in the bathroom, ripping the charger from the wall and tossing my battery-operated friend into the top drawer, before slamming it shut with two hands.
Now is not the time to dwell on what inspired me to charge the toy in the first place.
Shit.
That was entirely too close.
When I step back into the hallway, Emmett is leaning against the wall, waiting, with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing the same, unreadable, couldn’t-give-a-fuck expression that he hides behind.
But the second our eyes meet, he softens.
He’s not nearly the asshole he pretends to be.
And I’m not nearly as unaffected as I pretend to be.
“All yours.” My eyes sweep over him, pausing when I see the toothbrush and deodorant sticking out of the pocket of his basketball shorts. It’s so very Emmett. When the man says he lives simply, he’s not joking.
For a second, my mind wanders to the collection of products in the Doctor’s bathroom. It was vast enough to rival my own.
Emmett wouldnever.
There’s a clunky dance when we try to switch places in the tight space and we bump into each other, making him wince.
“Oh shit. I’m so sorry.” My hand rests on his chest as I steady myself. Our feet are practically tangled. “You zigged when I thought you were going to zag. Are your ribs okay?”
“I’m fine.”
The sharp breath he sucked in gives him away. Besides, I’ve seen his X-rays. I roll my eyes.
“It barely hurt. And you apologize too much.”
I’m well aware of my penchant for apologizing. My brothers like to point out this flaw, but twenty-some years is a long time to carry a habit. “Is being polite suddenly a crime?”
“Are you apologizing because it makes other people comfortable?” His voice drops lower. “Or because you did something that actually warrants it?”
