“It is tonight.”
For a second, I think she’s going to keep fighting. God knows she has enough anger left for it. But exhaustion finally wins. Isee it in the slight drop of her shoulders, in the way she looks past me at the bed like it personally offended her.
“Fine,” she says tightly. “But don’t touch me.”
The words come too easily now.
I should be used to them.
I’m not.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
That earns me another glare, which is fair.
She disappears into the bathroom with the hoodie still hanging to mid-thigh, and I give her privacy I don’t owe and maybe don’t deserve. When she comes back out a few minutes later, she’s still fully clothed. Hoodie. Leggings. Like she’s going to war, not bed.
I strip down to my briefs and leave it at that.
Her eyes flicker to me once and away so fast most men would miss it.
I don’t.
Then she crosses to the far side of the bed, lifts the blanket, and gets in without another word, rigid under the covers, her back to me, every line of her body broadcasting exactly how much she hates that I’m here.
I kill the lamp and lie down on top of the sheet on my side of the bed, one arm behind my head, staring up at the ceiling.
The room is too quiet.
I can hear the city beyond the windows, muted and distant. A siren somewhere far off. Tires on wet pavement. Elizabeth’s breathing, too uneven to be sleep for a long time.
I keep my eyes open and my hands to myself.
Because the truth is, she should be safe from me tonight.
Safer than she has ever been.
And still, all I can think about is the feel of her mouth when I kissed her on the plane. The way she kissed me back before she slapped me for it. The way she looked in thatchurch in white, walking toward another man while something in me came apart in real time. I tell myself I did the right thing. If I tell myself that enough times, maybe I’ll start believing it.
At some point, the anger in the room settles into something quieter. Heavier. Sleep finally drags me under without permission.
I don’t know how much later it is when I wake. Only that something is touching me.
My eyes open instantly.
The room is dark, the streetlamps outside casting a pale wash across the bed, and Elizabeth is no longer on her side. She’s turned toward me in her sleep. One hand is fisted in my bare shoulder. One leg is tangled with mine beneath the blanket. For a second, I lie perfectly still, trying to understand what woke me—the touch, the heat of her body, or the sound she makes next.
A soft, broken whimper.
My name.
“Lorenzo...”
Every muscle in me locks.
She’s dreaming.
I know that immediately. Her breathing is shallow and uneven, her brow furrowed, her mouth parted on a plea that sounds dragged up from somewhere helpless and deep.
