“Maddox.”
Paul doesn't move.
Paul doesn't move. He doesn't blink. He doesn't breathe. His hand stays flat on the counter past the point my ears start ringing. The only thing that moves is the pulse in his throat.
“Creed.”
“Yes.”
His hand curls on the counter. Uncurls.
“You stayed the night with Creed?”
“Yes.”
He watches the answer land. Doesn't move.
“At his apartment?”
“Yes.”
His throat works once.
“Doing what?”
It's a trap question. He knows. He's asking me to say it so he can hate me with the evidence on the record. I'm not going to say it. I'm also not going to lie about it. I sit there and I look at him and I let the silence be the answer.
His jaw works.
“Get out of my kitchen,” he says.
“Paul—”
“Go upstairs. Take a shower. You smell like him.”
I smell like Maddox.
I know. I washed my face in his bathroom. I brushed my teeth with the travel brush I kept in my gym bag. I pulled on my jeans and walked in the cold for eight blocks. I didn't shower because I didn't want to wash him off me before I had to.
Paul smelled him on me the second I came through the door.
I stand up.
I don't say anything else. I go past him and up the stairs. I close my bedroom door, sit on the edge of my bed, and put my face in my hands.
I don't cry.
I text Maddox instead.
I'm home. Told him. Day off. Can I see you?
The phone buzzes almost right away.
Run. One hour. Meet me at the trailhead past the reservoir. Tell him you're going for a run.
He won't believe me.
I know. Go anyway.
