He huffs, and I can feel him staring at me. To be honest, I didn’t try that hard. I tried very little.
My attempt at trying was nonexistent.
Thankfully, he takes my explanation and disappears into the bathroom, the water turning on. I sag against the bedframe.
I smell like him.
I need to shower and change immediately.
But first, I need to wash the sheets, to rinse away the scent and the memories caught in the fabric. I pull them off the bed with a quick flick of my wrist and throw them into the small washer.
As soon as I turn it on, I can breathe a little easier.
When he finally comes out of the bathroom, I grab my clothes, holding them tightly to my chest, and move into the small room. It, of course, smells like him. I hold my breath and wash quickly.
When I step into the room after, Caleb is tucked into his own bed,his sheets pulled up to his neck. Something akin to regret pulses through me.
His blue eyes meet mine, and he watches me through hooded lids.
“Are you hungry?” I manage to ask, shoving my hands in my pockets, trying not to do something I’ll regret. Like reach for him.
It seems my body got used to having him against me and…I miss it.
“Yeah, but I can do it when I get up. You’ve done enough.”
I shift on my feet. I should leave. I should let him do what he wants. But I don’t. I just stay and say, “I don’t mind.”
He sits up, that sheet tumbling down his chest, exposing his abdomen to me. I don’t understand why he doesn’t wear clothes.
“Why you being so nice to me, huh?” he asks, confusion lining his voice.
“Why wouldn’t I be nice?”
“Because you dislike me.”
Is that what the past few days were? Dislike? It sure didn’t feel like that to me.
“I don’t dislike you, Caleb,” I say softly.
My voice is huskier than I want it to be, and Caleb’s eyelids flutter slightly at the sound.
Absolutely not.
“Could have fooled me,” he says as he flops back down on his bed and throws an arm over his face.
“I’ll make you toast,” I murmur, walking briskly to the kitchen and holding on to the edge of the counter. My hands need to stay busy. Maybe I’ll clean the bathroom later today. Maybe I’ll deep-clean the entire apartment.
Fuck.
Fuck the toast. I don’t want to make it and then have to feed it to him. To watch his throat swallow.
It’s too much.
I should walk out of this apartment and get some fresh air, but for some reason, I make the damn toast like I’m some kind of sous chef, and when I’m done, I bring it into the bedroom.
He’s still lying on the bed. One of his legs has left the confines of the sheets, and I swallow roughly when I see him.
And instead of standing and handing him the plate, I lower myself down right next to him, helping him eat what I made. And if I brush the crumbs from his lips and feel my insides go molten from the sounds he makes when he swallows, I’ll blame it on the lack of sleep.
