Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Honest. It tugs at something I don’t like admitting exists.
“Hey,” I say softly, because she looks like she might spook. “Left a shirt and boxers on the bed.” I nod and continue, “I’ll get your dress out of the bathroom before the steam turns it into a raisin.”
She hugs the towel tighter. “Thank you.” It comes out like she doesn’t have a lot of practice.
“Don’t mention it.” I hook a thumb toward the bedroom. “Left’s mine. Right’s yours.”
She pads that way in bare feet, hesitant. I duck into the steamy bathroom after she clears it, pluck her dress off the back of the door, and hang it from the closet knob so it can dry from its steam cleaning she wasn’t expecting to give it. Her shoes are by the tub. Small, expensive, and they look uncomfortable to the point it’s cruel. I put them by the closet door. No reason except the idea of her stepping on cold tile to find them makes something in my chest itch.
When I come back out, she’s standing in the doorway wearing my shirt and boxers. The shirt hits mid-thigh. The boxers peek out, blue waistband rolled for fit. She looks like a kid playing dress-up and a woman who had her life cut down on the same day. Her hands knot in the hem. She looks at the bed. Then at me.
“There’s only one.”
“Yeah.” I rub my jaw, feel bristle rasp my palm. “Couch sucks. I can take the chair.”
Her head shakes so fast it’s almost a flinch. “No. I can’t— I don’t want to— You shouldn’t have to—” She’s spiraling, words piling up, eyes going bright like she might flood the place.
“Hey.” My voice cuts through without getting loud. I step closer, slow, hands up where she can see them like I’m palming a skittish mare. “You’re not putting me out. You’re not in the way. You’re not obligated.” I hold her gaze until I feel her climb down from the cliff she’s on. “You’re safe.”
She swallows. “I don’t know what that is right now.”
“Then let me know it for you until you remember.” It comes out before I can run it through the filter.
Rather than double back on my words, I let it stand.
She looks at the bed again like it’s a test she didn’t study for. I make the decision she can’t. I take her by the hand—warm, damp from shower—and guide her around the mattress. Her fingers clamp mine on reflex like she’s afraid of falling off the edge of the world. I tuck her in. Literally. Sheet. Blanket. The ridiculous ritual you do for kids because they sleep better under the weight. She lies there stiff as a board while I smooth fabric over her shins and make sure the corner’s not digging into her ankle. My mother would laugh herself sick if she saw this.
When I straighten, she’s watching me like I grew antlers or maybe demon horns. “You… you tuck people in?”
“Don’t spread it around.” I strip my shirt off. Belt unbuckled, metal tongue clicking soft. I take my time because otherwise this moment tilts toward something it’s not. Jeans down. I leave the boxers on because I told her safe and I mean it. The air’s cool on my skin. Her gaze flicks away and then back because she’s human.
She clears her throat. “Um?”
“Relax,” I state, tone flat. I flip the light off, leaving the lamp on in case she needs to go to the bathroom and gets mixed up in a new place. The room goes soft. “We’re both adults. I can sleep beside you without sex.” I slide in on my side—my side out of habit, not ownership—and let the mattress dip under my weight. “Unless that’s what you want.”
Her breath hitches. “I—”
I huff, amused despite myself. “I’m messing with you. Chill, Kristen.” I tilt my head on the pillow so I can see the outline of her face. “Go to sleep.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Watch me help.” I reach for her without asking—slow, careful, giving her time to shake me off. She doesn’t. I hook an arm under her shoulders and pull, draping her half across my chest until her ear’s over my heartbeat and her legs tangle with mine. She goes rigid for a count of three. Then I feel it—one muscle at a time letting go, like a line of dominoes falling and then quietly settled.
“This is weird,” she says into my skin.
“Yeah.”
“I barely know you.”
“You know enough.” I slide my palm into her hair, fingers working through damp strands absently. Not sexual. Although it easily could be. The woman is beautiful and under other circumstances I would absolutely want to fuck her. She’s in a mess though and I don’t do messes. Instead tonight I’m going to be a friend and that friend will stroke her hair. Soothing, like you do to a nervous dog or a kid after nightmares. She sighs without meaning to. The sound curls through my ribs and loosens something I didn’t know was tight.