Now, hours later, I’m in my office, pretending to work, but really just staring at the same report on my computer screen without absorbing a single word.
The house is quiet. Too quiet.
I rub a hand down my face, exhaling loudly. I should go to bed. I should stop thinking about her.
Instead, I find myself standing, pushing away from my desk, and heading toward the hallway.
The guest room door is slightly ajar, a sliver of warm light spilling out into the dimly lit hallway.
I should walk past it.
I should go to bed.
But I don’t.
I stop.
And then, before I can stop myself, I knock lightly against the doorframe.
The movement inside stills. Then, after a beat, “Come in.”
I push the door open just enough to step inside. Nysa is sitting on the bed, legs crossed, wearing a sweatshirt that’s too big for her and a pair of leggings. There’s an open book in her lap, but she’s not reading it.
Her eyes meet mine, and something unreadable flickers in them. “Couldn’t sleep?”
I shake my head. “You?”
She shrugs. “Same. It’s been hard to fall asleep since I came back to Birchwood Springs. It’s probably the . . . well, everything.”
Silence stretches between us. It’s not uncomfortable, not yet, but there’s an edge to it. Like we both know there are things that should be said but neither of us wants to be the first to say them.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “About earlier?—”
She shakes her head. “You don’t have to explain.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“It probably has to do something with the way you sprang off of the couch like something was on fire.” She smirks, but there’s no real humor behind it. “If I have to guess, you’re about something along the lines of, ‘It was nothing.’ That it shouldn’t have happened.”
I exhale through my mouth before letting the words out, “It didn’t happen. You and I . . .”
Her lips press together, and she looks away. “Right.”
I rake a hand through my hair, feeling like an asshole. “I didn’t mean?—”
“It’s fine, Hopper.” Her voice is quiet, but it cuts through me. “You don’t owe me anything.”
That’s the thing, though. It doesn’t feel fine.
It feels like something is unraveling between us, something I don’t know how to stop. Something I desire, even crave, but I shouldn’t have.
I step farther into the room. “It’s not that I don’t want—” I stop myself before I can finish that sentence. Before I can make this worse.
She looks up at me then, her eyes dark and tired. “But you won’t.”
I swallow hard. “Nysa . . .”
She exhales, shaking her head. “You don’t have to say it. I get it. You don’t want this, whatever this is. And that’s okay.”
