His mouth twitches.
“Professional,” I say.
“Trying.”
“Try harder.”
“I’d rather not.”
The room goes very still after that.
Not awkward.
Worse.
Aware.
He leans down and kisses me.
Slowly at first. Then not slowly enough. His hand slides to my waist under the sheet, and for five extremely foolish seconds, I let myself kiss him back as if clocks, call-outs andconsequences are fictional concepts invented by people with poor imagination.
Then I put a hand on his chest and push.
Not hard.
Enough.
“Station,” I say.
“Yes.” He drops his forehead briefly to my shoulder. “Unfortunately. I need to head to the B&B and get changed first.”
His eyes search mine for a second, and I see the words gathering. Not a declaration. Not pressure. But something. Something careful. Something that would make this more than two adults, a morning after a night shift and a very good reason to change the subject.
So I change it first.
“You really do need to go.”
A flicker crosses his face.
There and gone.
Then he nods.
“Yes.”
He kisses my shoulder once more before he moves away.
I hate that he does that.
I hate more that I like it.
The room feels colder the moment he is out of the bed. He gathers his clothes from the floor with only moderate dignity, which is impressive given the state of them. His shirt is inside out. His belt has somehow made it near the wardrobe. One sock is by the door, the other under the chair.
I watch him locate everything because I am not above enjoying the aftermath of my own poor decision-making.
He pulls on his trousers, then pauses with his shirt in hand.
“What?” I ask.
