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“Pretty sure that has nothing to do with this.”
His shoes clattered on the floor when he kicked them off and then bent to pull off the pants the rest of the way. I tracked his movements out of the corner of my eye but otherwise tried not to look. I don’t know why, but his nakedness made me shy.
A light touch on the top of my leg made me jolt.
“Easy,” he said, voice soothing. “C’mon, I’ll help you. Get these on while they’re still warm.”
A shiver rushed down my spine, making my body quake.
“Whoa,” he murmured, slipping an arm around my waist. His scent surrounded me, and it felt like being embraced by familiarity. “You doing okay?” he asked, lifting his head to study me.
“You called me final girl,” I blurted.
His forehead creased. “What?”
“You said, Don’t sass me, final girl.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I heard you.”
“You heard wrong.”
A sob caught in my throat, and I pressed the back of my hand to my lips to keep it from escaping.
“Jess,” Ben called, but I refused to look at him. I couldn’t. He tried to tug my hand away from my mouth, but I locked my muscles, and he didn’t force it down.
My throat worked valiantly as I struggled to keep down that pathetic cry.
“Baby,” he implored, and I lost the battle.
My hand fell into my lap, and my breath shuddered. “What’s wrong with me?” I worried, wringing my hands in my lap. “I can’t remember, I’m confused, and now I’m hearing things? How am I supposed to trust myself, Ben? How?”
A low curse fell from his lips, and both his hands covered mine, stopping their movement. His skin was so warm compared to mine, and the sensation of instant relief buffered everything else. “There’s nothing wrong with you, baby. It’s me. I lied.”
My lip stopped trembling, and I cut my eyes to him. “What?”
His face turned sheepish. “You didn’t hear wrong. I said it. I called you final girl.”
“Why?”
He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. “‘Cause that’s what you are to me.”
“Isn’t a final girl a trope in horror movies?” I wondered. Gasping, I grabbed Ben’s wrist. “I love horror movies!”
He chuckled. “See? That beautiful brain of yours is doing just fine.”
“So I do?” I asked, wanting reassurance.
“The more terrible, the better,” he confirmed.
“Is that why you call me that, then?”
He nodded, saying, “Something like that.”
“But—”
“Pants,” he intoned, holding up the red sweats.
