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Not tonight.

I set the phone facedown beside my watch, then empty the rest of my pockets.

My wallet.

Keys.

A folded receipt.

And the little matchbook I've been carrying around since her birthday. I stop with it between my fingers.

Eleven-eleven.

I haven't written the date on it yet. My grandfather would've called that unfinished business. I set it beside the others in the shallow dish on my dresser.

For once, I'm not going to spend the night answering to everybody else.

I turn back toward her. She's standing beside the windows, looking out over the city.

The train of her dress trails across the floor behind her, and the tiny beads scattered through the lace catch the light whenever she moves.

I slip off my shoes and socks, leaving them beside the dresser. Then I loosen my collar and roll my sleeves to my forearms.

She watches me in the reflection.

“Need some help?” I ask.

“With what?”

“Your dress.”

Her gaze drops. “Oh.”

I walk toward her. “You were having trouble with the zipper earlier.”

“Right.” She turns around.

For a moment, I just look at her. The elegant curve of her neck. The line of her shoulders. The intricate lace fitted against her back. I've spent the entire night trying not to touch her.

Now she's standing in my bedroom, waiting for me to unzip her dress.

I should probably appreciate the irony. “Ready?”

She nods.

I catch the zipper and slowly draw it down. The fabric relaxes beneath my fingers. My knuckles brush her back.

She takes a quiet breath.

“You okay?”

“Mm-hmm.”

I lower the zipper another inch.

Then stop. “Becks.”

She turns her head.