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He sets his phone down on the nightstand. “Aren’t we all.”
“But actually, three,” I respond. “Giles.”
“Hmm. Yeah,” he seems unconvinced. “Maybe three. He’s pretty scrawny.”
The conversation drifts away. He shifts beside me, stretching an arm over his head, and my eyes flick to the space between us. We started the week keeping a very careful, very professional distance in this bed. Now, just a day later, I barely notice when our legs brush beneath the sheets.
I wonder if he does.
I should roll over, put space between us, and go to sleep. Instead, I find myself checking out for a second, my mind spinning from the crime scene photos, to Emily’s pale face, to the way grief sat heavy in her eyes even before she drank herself silly.
“You think we’re in over our heads?”
Theo pauses for the length of a breath. Then, “I thought I was in over my head the second you walked through my office door.”
A dry laugh escapes me.
It hits me then, that we’re in the near-constant company of someone who could easily end us without a shred of guilt if they find out the real reason we’re here.
I speak the thought aloud to Theo.
He shifts again, and then, so casually I almost don’t notice, his hand ghosts against mine beneath the blankets.
And stays there.
I glance at him, but his face is impossible to read.
I don’t move my hand. Neither does he.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says finally. “I’ll keep you safe in the meantime.”
And for some reason, despite the absolute mess we’ve walked into, I believe him.
I am half-delirious when I wake in the middle of the night.
It takes a moment for the warmth at my back to register, for the steady breath against my shoulder to pull me fully awake. Then I realize it’s Theo, his body curved around mine.
My brain lights up in ten directions at once, none of them helpful. I freeze, too aware of every point where we’re touching. Moving seems risky. Staying still seems worse. If I wake him, we’ll both have to acknowledge this, and I’m not equipped for that level of emotional exposure before sunrise.
I try to breathe inaudibly, as if subtle respiration will somehow keep the situation from escalating. My heart does not get the memo. It’s loud enough that I’m convinced he’ll hear it and assume something is wrong, and then he’ll sit up, and then we’ll be trapped in a conversation I will not survive.
I consider every possible exit strategy and discard all of them. Rolling out of his arms would require movement. Movement would require waking him—
“Lila,” his lips move against my neck, the single word pulling me out of my mental freefall.
Then he nuzzles me, and my brain hops right back off the cliff again. What is happening?
A gasp sneaks up my throat, barely constrained, when he pulls me in until we’re flush. His hold is solid, confident, and my brain has no file folder for whatever this is.
He hums in my ear, then says, “Fuck, that sound you just made. How can I make you do it again?”
His fingers slip just beneath the band of my pajama pants, and the gasp it drags out of me makes him grind out, “Yeah, I think that’ll do it.”
“Theo, what are you—”
His fingers skim over my pubic bone and I find I don’t have access to language at the moment.
“Can I touch you, Lila?”
