Page 125 of Puck Me Back to Life

How many times?

How long?

Had she been lying awake on the other side of the wall listening while I came apart?

Embarrassment burns hotter than the morning coffee still sitting on the railing outside.

I take a slow breath before turning back toward the apartment.

Ash's shoes are still by the door. His jacket is thrown over the back of my couch. Evidence. Proof that last night happened. That he stayed. That someone chose to stay.

For a moment I stand there in the middle of my living room, holding lukewarm coffee and trying not to think about the fact that two people are now looking at me like I might vanish if they stop paying attention.

The worst part is that they might be right.

I set the mug down and head toward the bedroom. Practice starts soon. Noah will be there. Everyone will be watching. My stomach twists at the thought, but I keep walking anyway. Because that's what I do. I get dressed. I show up. I pretend being alive is the same thing as being okay.

The sound of running water reaches me almost immediately. I stop. Ash.

A wave of relief washes through me so quickly that my knees almost feel weak. He didn't hear us. The shower had been running the entire time.

Thank God.

I quietly walk toward my bedroom.

The bathroom door is cracked open, warm steam spilling into the room in soft clouds. Through the fogged glass of the shower enclosure, I can just make out Ash's silhouette. Water runs down his broad shoulders as he rinses shampoo from his hair, completely unaware that I've stopped in the doorway. I watch as the soap slides down his crafted muscles and past his hips.

I stand there for another second. Maybe two, biting my lip. I'm not even sure why. There's something calming about watching him exist so comfortably in my space. Ash belongs anywhere he stands.

“You know,” he says over the sound of the shower, “staring is generally considered rude, pillow prince.”

I jump. “What?”

A laugh answers me. “You've been standing there for at least thirty seconds.”

My face immediately catches fire. “I wasn't⁠—”

“Weren't you?”

“I…”

“Don't lie, baby.”

I groan. “I wasn't watching you.”

“Sure.”

“I wasn't.”

The shower turns off. “You've got terrible timing for lying.”

The glass door opens just enough for one amused brown eye to appear through the steam. “You little pervert.”

“Oh my God.” I immediately look toward the ceiling.

His laughter fills the bathroom.

Unfortunately, it's contagious. I catch myself smiling despite the embarrassment.